THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Thelma  ^^^^^^^^^  A 
Norwegian  Princess  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

By^^^^^^^  Marie  Corelli 


Chicago  and  New  York  *  «  ♦ 
Rand,  McNally  &  Company 


THELMA. 

]book:  I. 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  MIDNIGHT  SUN. 


CHAPTER  I. 


Dream  by  dream  shot  through  her  eyes,  and  each 
Outshone  the  last  that  lightened, 

Swinburne. 

Midnight — without  darlcness,  without  stars!  Midnight — 
and  the  unwearied  sun  stood,  yet  visible  in  the  heavens,  like 
a  victorious  king  throned  on  a  dais  of  royal  purple  bordered 
with  gold.  The  sky  above  him — his  canopy — gleamed  with  a 
cold  yet  lustrous  blue,  while  across  it  slowly  flitted  a  few 
wandering  clouds  of  palest  amber,  deepening,  as  they  sailed 
along,  to  a  tawny  orange.  A  broad  stream  of  light  falling,  as 
it  were,  from  the  center  of  the  magnificent  orb,  shot  length- 
wise across  the  Alten  Fjord,  turning  its  waters  to  a  mass  of 
quivering  and  shifting  color  that  alternated  from  bronze  to 
copper — from  copper  to  silver  and  azure.  The  surrounding 
hills  glowed  with  a  warm,  deep  violet  tint,  flecked  here  and 
there  with  touches  of  bright  red,  as  though  fairies  were  light- 
ing tiny  bonfires  on  their  summits.  Away  in  the  distance  a 
huge  mass  of  rock  stood  out  to  view,  its  rugged  lines  trans- 
figured into  ethereal  loveliness  by  a  misty  veil  of  tender  rose 
pink — a  hue  curiously  suggestive  of  some  other  and  smaller 
sun  that  might  have  just  set.  Absolute  silence  prevailed. 
Not  even  the  cry  of  a  sea-mew  or  kittiwake  broke  the  almost 
death-like  stillness — no  breath  of  wind  stirred  a  ripple  on  the 
glassy  water.     The  whole  scene  might  well  have  been  the 


6  THELMA. 

fantastic  dream  of  some  imaginative  painter,  whose  ambition 
soared  beyond  the  limits  of  human  skill.  Yet  it  was  only  one 
of  those  million  wonderful  effects  of  sky  and  sea  which  are 
common  in  Norway,  especially  on  the  Alten  Fjord,  where, 
though  beyond  the  Arctic  circle,  the  climate  in  summer  is 
that  of  another  Italy,  and  the  landscape  a  living  poem  fairer 
than  the  visions  of  Endymion. 

There  was  one  solitary  watcher  of  the  splendid  spectacle. 
This  was  a  man  of  refined  features  and  aristocratic  appear- 
ance, who,  reclining  on  a  large  rug  of  skins  which  he  had 
thrown  down  on  the  shore  for  that  purpose,  was  gazing  at  the 
pageant  of  the  midnight  sun  and  all  its  stately  surroundings, 
with  an  earnest  and  rapt  expression  in  his  clear  hazel  eyes. 

"Glorious!  beyond  all  expectation,  glorious!"  he  murmured 
half  aloud,  as  he  consulted  his  watch  and  saw  that  the  hands 
marked  exactly  twelve  on  the  dial.  "I  believe  I'm  having  the 
best  of  it,  after  all.  Even  if  those  fellows  get  the  'Eulalie' 
into  good  position,  they  will  see  nothing  finer  than  this." 

As  he  spoke  he  raised  his  field-glass  and  swept  the  horizon 
in  search  of  a  vessel — his  own  pleasure  yacht — which  had 
taken  three  of  his  friends,  at  their  special  desire,  to  the  op- 
posite island  of  Seiland — Seiland,  rising  in  weird  majesty 
three  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and  boasting  as  its  chief 
glory  "the  great  peak  of  Jedke,  the  most  northern  glacier  in  all 
the  wild  Norwegian  land.  There  was  no  sign  of  a  returning 
sail,  and  he  resumed  his  study  of  the  sumptuous  sky,  the 
colors  of  which  were  now  deepening  and  burning  with  increas- 
ing luster,  while  an  array  of  clouds  of  the  deepest  purple  hue 
swept  gorgeously  together  beneath  the  sun  as  though  to  form 
his  footstool. 

"One  might  imagine  that  the  trump  of  the  Eesurrection  had 
sounded,  and  that  all  this  aerial  pomp — this  strange  silence 
— was  just  the  pause,  the  supreme  moment  before  the  angels 
descended,"  he  mused,  with  a  half  smile  at  his  own  fancy,  for 
though  something  of  a  poet  at  heart,  he  was  much  more  of  a 
cynic.  He  was  too  deeply  imbued  with  modem  fashionable 
atheism  to  think  seriously  about  angels  or  Eesurrection 
trumps,  but  there  was  a  certain  love  of  mysticism  and  romance 
in  his  nature,  which  not  even  his  Oxford  experiences  and  the 
chilly  dullness  of  English  materialism  had  been  able  to  eradi- 
cate. And  there  was  something  impressive  in  the  sight  of  the 
majestic  orb  holding  such  imperial  revel  at  midnight — some- 


THELMA.  7 

thing  almost  unearthly  in  the  light  and  life  of  the  heavens,  as 
compared  with  the  reverential  and  seemingly  worshiping 
silence  of  the  earth — that,  for  a  few  moments,  awed  him  into 
a  sense  of  the  spiritual  and  unseen.  Mythical  passages  from 
the  poets  he  loved  came  into  his  memory,  and  stray  fragments 
of  old  songs  and  ballads  he  had  known  in  his  cliildhood  re- 
turned to  him  with  haunting  persistence.  It  was,  for  him,  one 
of  those  sudden  halts  in  life  which  we  all  experience — an  in- 
stant when  time  and  the  world  seem  to  stand  still,  as  though 
to  permit  us  easy  breathing;  a  brief  space — in  which  we  are 
allowed  to  stop  and  wonder  awhile  at  the  strange  unaccount- 
able force  within  us,  that  enables  us  to  stand  with  such  calm, 
smiling  audacity  on  our  small  pin's  point  of  the  present,  be- 
tween the  wide  dark  gaps  of  past  and  future;  a  small  hush — 
in  which  the  gigantic  engines  of  the  ^^niverse  appear  to  re- 
volve no  more,  and  the  immortal  soul  of  man  itself  is  subjected 
and  overruled  by  supreme  and  eternal  thought.  Drifting 
away  on  those  delicate  imperceptible  lines  that  lie  between 
reality  and  dream-land,  the  watcher  of  the  midnight  sun  gave 
himself  up  to  the  half-painful,  half-delicious  sense  of  being 
drawn  in,  absorbed,  and  lost  in  infinite  imaginings,  when  the 
intense  stillness  around  him  was  broken  by  the  sound  of  a 
voice  singing — a  full,  rich  contralto,  that  rang  through  the  air 
with  the  clearness  of  a  golden  bell.  The  sweet,  liquid  notes 
were  those  of  an  old  Norwegian  mountain  melody,  one  of 
those  wildly  pathetic  folk-songs  that  seem  to  hold  all  the  sor- 
row, wonder,  wistfulness,  and  indescribable  yearning  of  a 
heart  too  full  for  other  speech  than  music.  He  started  to  his 
feet  and  looked  around  him  for  the  singer.  There  was  no  one 
visible.  The  amber  streaks  in  the  sky  were  leaping  into 
crimson  flame;  the  fjord  glowed  like  the  burning  lake  of 
Dante's  vision ;  one  solitary  sea-gull  winged  its  graceful,  noise- 
less flight  far  above,  its  white  pinions  shimmering  like  jewels 
as  it  crossed  the  radiance  of  the  heavens.  Other  sign  of  animal 
life  there  was  none.  Still  the  hidden  voice  rippled  on  in  a 
stream  of  melody,  and  the  listener  stood  amazed  and  en- 
chanted at  the  roundness  and  distinctness  of  every  note  that 
fell  from  the  lips  of  the  unseen  vocalist. 
"A  woman's  voice,"  he  thought;  "but  where  is  the  woman?" 
Puzzled,  he  looked  to  the  right  and  left,  then  out  to  the 
shining  fjord,  half  expecting  to  see  some  fisher-maiden  row- 
ing along,  and  singing  as  she  rowed,  but  there  was  no  sign  of 


8  T  HELM  A. 

any  living  creature.  While  he  waited,  the  voice  suddenly 
ceased,  and  the  song  was  replaced  by  the  sharp  grating  of  a 
keel  on  the  beach.  Turning  in  the  direction  of  this  sound,  he 
perceived  a  boat  being  pushed  out  by  invisible  hands  toward 
the  water's  edge  from  a  rocky  cave  that  jutted  upon  the  fjord, 
and,  full  of  curiosity,  he  stepped  toward  the  arched  entrance, 
when — all  suddenly  and  unexpectedly — a  girl  sprung  out  from 
the  dark  interior,  and,  standing  erect  in  her  boat,  faced  the 
intruder.  A  girl  of  about  nineteen  she  seemed,  taller  than 
most  women — with  a  magnificent  uncovered  mass  of  hair,  the 
color  of  the  midnight  sunshine,  tumbled  over  her  shoulders, 
and  flashing  against  her  flushed  cheeks  and  dazzlingly  fair 
skin.  Her  deep  blue  eyes  had  an  astonished  and  certainly  in- 
dignant expression  in  them,  while  he,  utterly  unprepared  for 
such  a  vision  of  loveliness  at  such  a  time  and  in  such  a  place, 
was  for  a  moment  taken  aback  and  at  a  loss  for  words.  Ee- 
covering  his  habitual  self-possession  quickly,  however,  he 
raised  his  hat,  and,  pointing  to  the  boat,  which  was  more  than 
half-way  out  of  the  cavern,  said  simply: 

"May  I  assist  you?"  , 

She  was  silent,  eying  him  with  a  keen  glance  which  had 
something  in  it  of  disfavor  and  suspicion. 

"I  suppose  she  doesn't  understand  English,"  he  thought, 
"and  I  can't  speak  a  word  of  Norwegian.  I  must  talk  by 
signs." 

And  forthwith  he  went  through  a  labored  pantomime  of 
gesture,  sufficiently  ludicrous  in  itself,  yet  at  the  same  time 
expressive  of  its  meaning.  The  girl  broke  into  a  laugh — a 
laugh  of  sweet  amusement  which  brought  a  thousand  new 
sparkles  of  light  into  her  lovely  eyes. 

"That  is  very  well  done,"  she  observed  graciously,  speaking 
English  with  something  of  a  foreign  accent.  "Even  the  Lapps 
would  understand  you,  and  they  are  very  stupid,  poor  things!" 

Half  vexed  by  her  laughter,  and  feeling  that  he  was  some- 
how an  object  of  ridicule  to  this  tall,  bright-haired  maiden, 
he  ceased  his  pantomimic  gestures  abruptly  and  stood  looking 
at  her  with  a  slight  flush  of  embarrassment  on  his  features. 

"I  know  your  language,"  she  resumed  quietly,  after  a  brief 
pause,  in  which  she  had  apparently  considered  the  stranger's 
appearance  and  general  bearing.  "It  was  rude  of  me  not  to 
have  answered  you  at  once.  You  can  help  me  if  you  will. 
The  keel  has  caught  among  the  pebbles,  but  we  can  easily 


THELMA.  9 

move  it  between  us."  And,  jumping  lightly  out  of  her  boat, 
she  grasped  its  edge  firmly  with  her  strong  white  hands,  ex- 
claiming gayly  as  she  did  so:  "Push!" 

Thus  adjured,  he  lost  no  time  in  complying  with  her  re- 
quest, and,  using  his  great  strength  and  muscular  force  to 
good  purpose,  the  light  little  craft  was  soon  well  in  the  water, 
swaying  to  and  fro  as  though  with  impatience  to  be  gone. 
The  girl  sprung  to  her  seat,  discarding  his  eagerly  proffered 
assistance,  and,  taking  both  oars,  laid  them  in  their  respective 
rowlocks,  and  seemed  about  to  start,  when  she  paused  and 
asked  abruptly: 

"Are  you  a  sailor?" 

He  smiled.    "Not  I!    Do  I  remind  you  of  one?" 

"You  are  strong,  and  you  manage  a  boat  as  though  you 
were  accustomed  to  the  work.  Also  you  look  as  if  you  had 
been  at  sea." 

"Eightly  guessed!"  he  replied,  still  smiling;  "I  certainly 
have  been  at  sea;  I  have  been  coasting  all  about  your  lovely 
land.    My  yacht  went  across  to  Seiland  this  afternoon." 

She  regarded  him  more  intently,  and  observed,  with  the 
critical  eye  of  a  woman,  the  refined  taste  displayed  in  his 
dress,  from  the  very  cut  of  his  loose  traveling  coat  to  the  lux- 
urious rug  of  fine  fox-skins  that  lay  so  carelessly  cast  on  the 
shore  at  a  little  distance  from  him.  Then  she  gave  a  gesture 
of  hauteur  and  half  contempt. 

"You  have  a  yacht?  Oh!  then  you  are  a  gentleman.  You 
do  nothing  for  your  living?" 

"Nothing,  indeed!"  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a 
mingled  air  of  weariness  and  self-pity,  "except  one  thing — I 
live!" 

"Is  that  hard  work?"  she  inquired,  wonderingly. 

"Very." 

They  were  silent  then,  and  the  girl's  face  grew  serious  as 
she  rested  on  her  oars  and  still  surveyed  him  with  a  straight, 
candid  gaze,  that,  though  earnest  and  penetrating,  had  noth- 
ing of  boldness  in  it.  It  was  the  look  of  one  in  whose  past 
there  were  no  secrets — the  look  of  a  child  who  is  satisfied  with 
the  present  and  takes  no  thought  for  the  future.  Few  women 
look  so  after  they  have  entered  their  teens.  Social  artifice, 
affectation,  and  the  insatiate  vanity  that  modem  life  encour- 
ages in  the  feminine  nature — all  these  things  soon  do  away 
with  the  pellucid  clearness  and  steadfastness  of  the  eye — the 


10  THELMA. 

beautiful,  true,  untamed  expression,  which,  though  so  rare,  is, 
when  seen,  infinitely  more  bewitching  than  all  the  bright 
arrows  of  coquetry  and  sparkling  invitation  that  flash  from  the 
glances  of  well-bred  society  dames,  who  have  taken  care  to 
educate  their  eyes — if  not  their  hearts.  This  girl  was  evi- 
dently not  trained  properly;  had  she  been  so,  she  would  have 
dropped  a  curtain  over  those  wide,  bright  windows  of  her 
soul;  she  would  have  remembered  that  she  was  alone  with  a 
strange  man  at  midnight — at  midnight,  though  the  sun  shone; 
she  would  have  simpered  and  feigned  embarrassment,  even  if 
she  could  not  feel  it.  As  it  happened,  she  did  nothing  of  the 
kind,  only  her  expression  softened  and  became  more  wistful 
and  earnest,  and  when  she  spoke  again  her  voice  was  mellow 
with  a  suave  gentleness  that  had  something  in  it  of  com- 
passion. 

"If  you  do  not  love  life  itself,"  she  said,  "you  love  the  beau- 
tiful things  of  life,  do  you  not?  See  yonder!  There  is  what 
we  call  the  meeting  of  night  and  morning.  One  is  glad  to  be 
alive  at  such  a  moment.  Look  quickly!  The  light  soon 
fades." 

She  pointed  toward  the  east.  Her  companion  gazed  in  that 
direction,  and  uttered  an  exclamation — almost  a  shout — of 
wonder  and  admiration.  Within  the  space  of  the  past  few 
minutes  the  aspect  of  the  heavens  had  completely  changed. 
The  burning  scarlet  and  violet  hues  had  all  melted  into  a 
transparent  yet  brilliant  shade  of  pale  mauve — as  delicate  as 
the  inner  tint  of  a  lilac  blossom — and  across  this  stretched  two 
wing-shaped  gossamer  clouds  of  watery  green,  fringed  with 
soft  primrose.  Between  these  cloud-wings,  as  opaline  in  lus- 
ter as  those  of  a  dragon-fly,  the  face  of  the  sun  shone  like  a 
shield  of  polished  gold,  while  his  rays,  piercing  spear-like 
through  the  varied  tints  of  emerald — brought  an  unearthly 
radiance  over  the  landscape — a  luster  as  though  the  moon 
were,  in  some  strange  way,  battling  with  the  sun  for  mastery 
over  the  visible  universe,  though,  looking  southward,  she 
could  dimly  be  perceived,  the  ghost  of  herself — a  poor,  faint- 
ing, pallid  goddess — a  perishing  Diana. 

Bringing  his  glance  down  from  the  skies,  the  young  man 
turned  it  to  the  face  of  the  maiden  near  him,  and  was  startled 
at  her  marvelous  beauty — beauty  now  heightened  by  the 
effect  of  the  changeful  colors  that  played  around  her.  The 
very  boat  in  which  she  sat  glittered  with  a  bronze-like,  metal- 


THELMA.  11 

lie  brightness  as  it  heaved  gently  to  and  fro  on  the  silvery 
green  water;  the  midnight  sunshine  bathed  the  falling  glory 
of  her  long  hair,  till  each  thick  tress,  each  clustering  curl, 
appeared  to  emit  an  amber  spark  of  light.  The  strange,  weird 
effect  of  the  sky  seemed  to  have  stolen  into  her  eyes,  making 
them  shine  with  witch-like  brilliancy — the  varied  radiance 
flashing  about  her  brought  into  strong  relief  the  pureness  of 
her  profile,  drawing  as  with  a  fine  pencil  the  outlines  of  her 
noble  forehead,  sweet  mouth,  and  rounded  chin.  It  touched 
the  scarlet  of  her  bodice,  and  brightened  the  quaint  old  silver 
clasps  she  wore  at  her  waist  and  throat,  till  she  seemed  no 
longer  an  earthly  being,  but  more  like  some  fair  wandering 
sprite  from  the  legendary  Norse  kingdom  of  Alfheim,  the 
"abode  of  the  Luminous  Genii." 

She  was  gazing  upward — heavenward — and  her  expression 
was  one  of  rapt  and  almost  devotional  intensity.  Thus  she 
remained  for  some  moments,  motionless  as  the  picture  of  an 
expectant  angel  painted  by  Eaphael  or  Correggio;  then  reluc- 
tantly and  with  a  deep  sigh  she  turned  her  eyes  toward  earth 
again.  In  so  doing  she  met  the  fixed  and  too  visibly  admiring 
gaze  of  her  companion.  She  started,  and  a  wave  of  vivid  color 
flushed  her  cheeks.  Quickly  recovering  her  serenity,  however, 
she  saluted  him  slightly,  and,  moving  her  oars  in  unison,  was 
on  the  point  of  departure. 

Stirred  by  an  impulse  he  could  not  resist,  he  laid  one  hand 
detainingly  on  the  rim  of  her  boat. 

"Are  you  going  now?"  he  asked. 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  in  some  little  surprise  and  smiled. 

"Going?"  she  repeated.  "Why,  yes.  I  shall  be  late  in 
getting  home  as  it  is." 

"Stop  a  moment,"  he  said,  eagerly,  feeling  that  he  could 
not  let  this  beautiful  creature  leave  him  as  utterly  as  a  mid- 
summer night's  dream  without  some  clew  as  to  her  origin  and 
destination.    "Will  you  not  tell  me  your  name?" 

She  drew  herself  erect  with  a  look  of  indignation. 

"Sir,  I  do  not  know  you.  The  maidens  of  Norway  do  not 
give  their  names  to  strangers." 

"Pardon  me,"  he  replied,  somewhat  abashed.  "I  mean  no 
offence.  We  have  watched  the  midnight  sun  together,  and — 
and — I  thought — " 

He  paused,  feeling  very  foolish,  and  unable  to  conclude  his 
sentence. 


12  THELMA. 

She  looked  at  him  demurely  from  under  her  long,  curling 
lashes. 

"You  will  often  find  a  peasant  girl  on  the  shores  of  the 
Alten  Fjord  watching  the  midnight  sun  at  the  same  time  as 
yourself,"  she  said,  and  there  was  a  suspicion  of  laughter  in 
her  voice.  "It  is  not  unusual.  It  is  not  even  necessary  that 
you  should  remember  so  little  a  thing." 

"Necessary  or  not,  I  shall  never  forget  it,"  he  said,  with 
sudden  impetuosity.  "You  are  no  peasant!  Come;  if  I  give 
you  my  name  will  you  still  deny  me  yours?" 

Her  delicate  brows  drew  together  in  a  frown  of  haughty  and 
decided  refusal.  "No  names  please  my  ears  save  those  that 
are  familiar,"  she  said,  with  intense  coldness.  "We  shall  not 
meet  again.    Farewell!" 

And  without  further  word  or  look,  she  leaned  gracefully  to 
the  oars,  and  pulling  with  a  long,  steady,  resolute  stroke,  the 
little  boat  darted  away  as  lightly  and  swiftly  as  a  skimming 
swallow  out  on  the  shimmering  water.  He  stood  gazing  after 
it  till  it  became  a  distant  speck  sparkling  like  a  diamond  in 
the  light  of  sky  and  wave,  and  when  he  could  no  more  watch 
it  with  unassisted  eyes,  he  took  up  his  field-glass  and  followed 
its  course  attentively.  He  saw  it  cutting  along  as  straightly 
as  an  arrow,  then  suddenly  it  dipped  round  to  the  westward, 
apparently  making  straight  for  some  shelving  rocks  that  pro- 
jected far  into  the  fjord.  It  reached  them;  it  grew  less  and 
less — ^it  disappeared.  At  the  same  time  the  luster  of  the 
heavens  gave  way  to  a  pale,  pearl-like  uniform  gray  tint,  that 
stretched  far  and  wide,  folding  up  as  in  a  mantle  all  the  regal 
luxury  of  the  sun-king's  palace.  The  subtle  odor  and  delicate 
chill  of  the  coming  dawn  stole  freshly  across  the  water.  A 
light  haze  rose  and  obscured  the  opposite  islands.  Something 
of  the  tender  melancholy  of  autumn,  though  it  was  late  June, 
toned  down  the  aspect  of  the  before  brilliant  landscape.  A 
lark  rose  swiftly  from  its  nest  in  an  adjacent  meadow,  and, 
soaring  higher  and  higher,  poured  from  its  tiny  throat  a  cas- 
cade of  delicious  melody.  The  midnight  sun  no  longer  shone 
at  midnight;  his  face  smiled  with  a  sobered  serenity  through 
the  faint  early  mists  of  approaching  morning. 


THELMA.  13 


CHAPTEE  II. 

Viens  done — je  te  chanterai  des  chansons  que  les  esprits  des 
cimetifires  m'ont  apprises! — Matukin. 

"Baffled!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  slight  vexed  laugh,  as  the 
boat  vanished  from  his  sight.  "By  a  woman,  too!  Who 
would  have  thought  it?" 

Who  would  have  thought  it,  indeed!  Sir  Philip  Bruce- 
Errington,  baronet,  the  wealthy  and  desirable  parti  for  whom 
many  match-making  mothers  had  stood  knee-deep  in  the  chilly 
though  sparkling  waters  of  society,  ardently  plying  rod  and 
line  with  patient  persistence,  vainly  hoping  to  secure  him  as 
a  husband  for  one  of  their  highly  proper  and  passionless 
daughters — he,  the  admired,  long-sought-after  "eligible,"  was 
suddenly  rebuffed,  flouted — by  whom?  A  stray  princess,  or  a 
peasant?  he  vaguely  wondered,  as  he  lighted  a  cigar  and 
strolled  up  and  down  on  the  shore,  meditating,  with  a  puzzled, 
almost  annoyed  expression  on  his  handsome  features.  He 
was  not  accustomed  to  slights  of  any  kind,  however  trifling, 
his  position  being  commanding  and  enviable  enough  to  at- 
tract flattery  and  friendship  from  most  people.  He  was  the 
only  son  of  a  baronet  as  renowned  for  eccentricity  as  for 
wealth.  He  had  been  the  spoiled  darling  of  his  mother;  and 
now,  both  his  parents  being  dead,  he  was  alone  in  the  world, 
heir  to  his  father's  revenues  and  entire  master  of  his  own 
actions.  And  as  part  of  the  penalty  he  had  to  pay  for  being 
rich  and  good-looking  to  boot,  he  was  so  much  run  after  by 
women  that  he  found  it  hard  to  understand  the  haughty  in- 
difference with  which  he  had  just  been  treated  by  one  of  the 
most  fair,  if  not  the  fairest  of  her  sex.  He  was  piqued,  and 
his  amour  propre  was  wounded. 

"Pm  sure  my  question  was  harmless  enough,"  he  mused, 
half  crossly.    "She  might  have  answered  it." 

He  glanced  out  impatiently  over  the  fjord.  There  was  no 
sign  of  his  returning  yacht  as  yet. 

"What  a  time  those  fellows  are!"  he  said  to  himself.  "If 
the  pilot  were  not  on  board,  I  should  begin  to  think  they  had 
run  the  'Eulalie'  aground." 


14  THELMA. 

He  finished  his  cigar  and  threw  the  end  of  it  into  the  water; 
then  he  stood  moodily  watching  the  ripples  as  they  rolled 
softly  up  and  caressed  the  sliining  brown  shore  at  his  feet, 
thinking  all  the  while  of  that  strange  girl,  so  wonderfully 
lovely  in  face  and  form,  so  graceful  and  proud  of  bearing,  with 
her  great  blue  eyes  and  masses  of  dusky  gold  hair. 

His  meeting  with  her  was  a  sort  of  adventure  in  its  way — 
the  first  of  the  kind  he  had  had  for  some  time.  He  was  sub- 
ject to  fits  of  weariness  or  caprice,  and  it  was  in  one  of  these 
that  he  had  suddenly  left  London  in  the  height  of  the  season, 
and  had  started  for  Norway  on  a  yachting  cruise  with  three 
chosen  companions,  one  of  whom,  George  Lorimer,  once  an 
Oxford  fellow-student,  was  now  his  "chum" — the  Pythias  to 
his  Damon,  the  Jidus  Achates  of  his  closest  confidence. 
Through  the  unexpected  wakening  up  of  energy  in  the  latter 
young  gentleman,  who  was  usually  of  a  most  sleepy  and  in- 
dolent disposition,  he  happened  to  be  quite  alone  on  this  par- 
ticular occasion,  though,  as  a  general  rule,  he  was  accompanied 
in  his  rambles  by  one  if  not  all  three  of  his  friends.  Utter 
solitude  was  with  him  a  rare  occurrence,  and  his  present  ex- 
perience of  it  had  chanced  in  this  wise.  Lorimer  the  languid, 
liorimer  the  lazy,  Lorimer  who  had  remained  blandly  un- 
moved and  drowsy  through  all  the  magnificent  panorama  of 
the  Norwegian  coast,  including  the  Sogne  Fjord  and  the  top- 
pling peaks  of  the  Justedal  glaciers;  Lorimer  who  had  slept 
peacefully  in  a  hammock  on  deck,  even  while  the  yacht  was 
passing  under  the  looming  splendors  of  Melsnipa;  Lorimer, 
now  that  he  had  arrived  at  the  Alten  Fjord,  then  at  its  loveli- 
est in  the  full  glory  of  the  continuous  sunshine,  developed  a 
new  turn  of  mind,  and  began  to  show  sudden  and  abnormal 
interest  in  the  scenery.  In  this  humor  he  expressed  his  desire 
to  "take  a  sight"  of  the  midnight  sun  from  the  i?land  of  Sei- 
land,  and  also  declared  his  resolve  to  try  the  nearly  impossible 
ascent  of  the  great  Jedke  glacier. 

Errington  laughed  at  the  idea.  "Don't  tell  me,"  he  said, 
"that  you  are  going  in  for  climbing.  And  do  you  suppose  I 
believe  that  you  are  interested — you  of  all  people — in  the 
heavenly  bodies?" 

"Why  not?"  asked  Lorimer,  with  a  candid  smile,  "I'm  not 
in  the  least  interested  in  earthly  bodies,  except  my  own.  The 
sun's  a  jolly  fellow.  I  sympathize  with  him  in  his  present 
condition.     He's  in  his  cups — that's  what's  the  matter — and 


THBJLMA.  15 

he  can't  be  persuaded  to  go  to  bed.  I  know  his  feelings  per- 
fectly; and  I  want  to  survey  his  gloriously  inebriated  face 
from  another  point  of  view.  Don't  laugh,  Phil;  I'm  in  earnest! 
And  I  really  have  quite  a  curiosity  to  try  my  skill  in  amateur 
mountaineering.  Jedke's  the  very  place  for  a  first  effort.  It 
offers  diflficulties,  and" — this  with  a  slight  yawn — "I  like  to 
surmount  difficulties;  it's  rather  amusing." 

His  mind  was  so  evidently  set  upon  the  excursion  that  Sir 
Philip  made  no  attempt  to  dissuade  him  from  it,  but  excused 
himself  from  accompanying  the  party  on  the  plea  that  he 
wanted  to  finish  a  sketch  he  had  recently  begun.  So  that 
when  the  "Eulalie"  got  up  her  steam,  weighed  anchor,  and 
swept  gracefully  away  toward  the  coast  of  the  adjacent  is- 
lands, her  owner  was  left,  at  his  desire,  to  the  seclusion  of  a 
quiet  nook  on  the  shore  of  the  Alten  Fjord,  where  he  suc- 
ceeded in  making  a  bold  and  vivid  picture  of  the  scene  before 
him.  The  colors  of  the  sky  had,  however,  defied  his  palate, 
and  after  one  or  two  futile  attempts  to  transfer  to  his  canvas  a 
few  of  the  gorgeous  tints  that  illumined  the  landscape,  he 
gave  up  the  task  in  despair,  and  resigned  himself  to  the  dolce 
far  niente  of  absolute  enjoyment.  From  his  half-pleasing, 
half-melancholy  reverie  the  voice  of  the  unknown  maiden  had 
startled  him,  and  now — now  she  had  left  him  to  resume  it 
if  he  chose — left  him,  in  chill  displeasure,  with  a  cold  yet 
brilliant  flash  of  something  like  scorn  in  her  wonderful  eyes. 

Since  her  departure  the  scenery,  in  some  unaccountable 
way,  seemed  less  attractive  to  him,  the  songs  of  the  birds,  who 
were  all  awake,  fell  on  inattentive  ears;  he  was  haunted  by 
her  face  and  voice,  and  he  was,  moreover,  a  little  out  of  humor 
with  himself  for  having  been  such  a  blunderer  as  to  give  her 
offense,  and  thus  leave  an  unfavorable  impression  on  her 
mind. 

"I  suppose  I  was  rude,"  he  considered  after  awhile.  "She 
seemed  to  think  so,  at  any  rate.  By  Jove!  what  a  crushing 
look  she  gave  me!  A  peasant?  Not  she!  If  she  had  said  she 
was  an  empress  I  shouldn't  have  been  much  surprised.  But 
a  common  peasant,  with  that  regal  figure  and  those  white 
hands!  I  don't  believe  it.  Perhaps  our  pilot,  Valdemar, 
knows  who  she  is;  I  must  ask  him." 

All  at  once  he  bethought  himself  of  the  cave  whence  she 
had  emerged.  It  was  close  at  hand — a  natural  grotto,  arched 
and  apparently  lofty.     He  resolved  to  explore  it.     Glancing 


16  THELMA. 

at  ids  -watcli  lie  saw  it  was  not  yet  one  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
yet  the  voice  of  the  cuckoo  called  shrilly  from  the  neighbor- 
ing hills,  and  a  circhng  group  of  swallows  flitted  around  him, 
their  lovely  wings  gUstening  like  jewels  in  the  warm  light  of 
the  ever-wakeful  sun.  Going  to  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  he 
looked  in.  It  was  formed  of  rough  rock,  hewn  out  by  the 
silent  work  of  the  water,  and  its  floor  was  strewn  thick  with 
loose  pebbles  and  polished  stones.  Entering  it,  he  was  able 
to  walk  upright  for  some  few  paces;  then  suddenly  it  seemed 
to  shrink  in  size  and  to  become  darker.  The  light  from  the 
opening  gradually  narrowed  into  a  slender  stream  too  small 
for  him  to  see  clearly  where  he  was  going;  thereupon  he  struck 
a  fusee.  At  first  he  could  observe  no  sign  of  human  habita- 
tion, not  even  a  rope,  or  chain,  or  hook,  to  intimate  that  it 
was  a  customary  shelter  for  a  boat.  The  fusee  went  out 
quickly,  and  he  lighted  another.  Looking  more  carefully  and 
closely  about  him,  he  perceived  on  a  projecting  shelf  of  rock,  a 
small  antique  lamp,  Etruscan  in  shape,  made  of  iron  and 
wrought  with  curious  letters.  There  was  oil  in  it,  and  a  half- 
burned  wick;  it  had  evidently  been  recently  used.  He  availed 
himself  at  once  of  this  useful  adjunct  to  his  explorations,  and, 
lighting  it,  was  able  by  the  clear  and  steady  flame  it  emitted, 
to  see  everything  very  distinctly.  Eight  before  him  was  an 
uneven  flight  of  steps  leading  down  to  a  closed  door. 

He  paused  and  listened  attentively.  There  was  no  sound 
but  the  slow  lapping  of  the  water  near  the  entrance;  within, 
the  thickness  of  the  cavern  walls  shut  out  the  gay  caroling  of 
the  birds,  and  all  the  cheerful  noises  of  awakening  nature. 
Silence,  chillness  and  partial  obscurity  are  depressing  influ- 
ences, and  the  warm  blood  flowing  through  his  veins  ran  a 
trifle  more  slowly  and  coldly  as  he  felt  the  sort  of  uncomfort- 
able eerie  sensation  which  is  experienced  by  the  jolliest  and 
most  careless  traveler  when  he  first  goes  down  to  the  cata- 
combs in  Eome.  A  sort  of  damp,  earthy  shudder  creeps 
through  the  system,  and  a  dreary  feeling  of  general  hopeless- 
ness benumbs  the  faculties;  a  morbid  state  of  body  and  mind 
which  is  only  to  be  remedied  by  a  speedy  return  to  the  warm 
sunlight,  and  a  draught  of  generous  wine. 

Sir  Philip,  however,  held  the  antique  lamp  aloft,  and  de- 
scended the  clumsy  steps  cautiously,  counting  twenty  steps  in 
all,  at  the  bottom  of  which  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
the  closed  door.    It  was  made  of  hard  wood,  so  hard  as  to  be 


THBLMA.  17 

almost  like  iron.  It  was  black  with  age,  and  covered  with 
quaint  carvings  and  inscriptions,  but  in  the  middle,  standing 
out  in  bold  relief  among  the  numberless  Eunic  figures  and 
devices,  was  written  in  large  well-cut  letters  the  word — 

THELMA. 

"By  Jove!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  have  it!  The  girl's  name,  of 
course!  This  is  some  private  retreat  of  hers,  I  suppose — a 
kind  of  boudoir  like  my  Lady  Winsleigh's,  only  with  rather  a 
difference." 

And  he  laughed  aloud,  thinking  of  the  dainty  gold-satin 
hangings  of  a  certain  room  in  a  certain  great  mansion  in  Park 
Lane,  where  an  aristocratic  and  handsome  lady-leader  of  fash- 
ion had  as  nearly  made  love  to  him  as  it  was  possible  for  her 
to  do  without  losing  her  social  dignity. 

His  laugh  was  echoed  back  with  a  weird  and  hollow  sound, 
as  though  a  hidden  demon  of  the  cave  were  mocking  him,  a 
demon  whose  merriment  was  intense  but  also  horrible.  He 
heard  the  unpleasantly  jeering  repetition  with  a  kind  of  care- 
less admiration. 

"That  echo  would  make  a  fortune  in  *Faust,'  if  it  could  be 
persuaded  to  back  up  Mephistopheles  with  that  truly  fiendish 
'Ha,  ha!' "  he  said,  resuming  his  examination  of  the  name  on 
the  door.    Then  an  odd  fancy  seized  him,  and  he  called  loudly : 

"Thelma!" 

"Thelma!"  shouted  the  echo. 

"Is  that  her  name?" 

"Her  name!"  replied  the  echo. 

"I  thought  so."  And  Philip  laughed  again,  while  the  echo 
laughed  wildly  in  answer.  "Just  the  sort  of  name  to  suit  a 
Norwegian  nymph  or  goddess.  Thelma  is  quaint  and  appro- 
priate, and  as  far  as  I  can  remember  there's  no  rhyme  to  it  in 
the  English  language.  Thelma!"  and  he  lingered  on  the  pro- 
nunciation of  the  strange  word  with  a  curious  sensation  of 
pleasure.  "There  is  something  mysteriously  suggestive  about 
the  sound  of  it;  like  a  chord  of  music  played  softly  in  the 
distance.    Now,  can  I  get  through  this  door,  I  wonder?" 

He  pushed  it  gently.  It  yielded  very  slightly,  and  he  tried 
again  and  yet  again.  Finally  he  put  down  the  lamp  and  set 
his  shoulder  against  the  wooden  barrier  with  all  his  force.  A 
dull  creaking  sound  rewarded  bis  efforts,  and  inch  by  inch  the 
huge  door  opened  into  what  at  first  appeared  immeasurable 


18  THELMA. 

darkness.  Holding  up  the  light  he  looked  in,  and  uttered  a 
smothered  exclamation.  A  sudden  gust  of  wind  rushed  from 
the  sea  through  the  passage  and  extinguished  the  lamp,  leav- 
ing him  in  profound  gloom.  Nothing  daunted,  he  sought  his 
fusee-case;  there  was  just  one  left  in  it.  This  he  hastily 
struck,  and  shielding  the  glow  carefully  with  one  hand,  re- 
lighted his  lamp,  and  stepped  boldly  into  the  mysterious 
grotto. 

The  murmur  of  the  wind  and  waves,  like  spirit-voices  in 
unison,  followed  him  as  he  entered.  He  found  himself  in  a 
spacious  winding  corridor,  that  had  evidently  been  hollowed 
out  in  the  rocks  and  fashioned  by  human  hands.  Its  construc- 
tion was  after  the  ancient  Gothic  method,  but  the  wonder  of 
the  place  consisted  in  the  walls,  which  were  entirely  covered 
with  shells — shells  of  every  shape  and  hue — some  delicate  as 
rose-leaves,  some  rough  and  prickly,  others  polished  as  ivory, 
some  gleaming  with  a  thousand  iridescent  colors,  others  pure 
white  as  the  foam  on  high  billows.  Many  of  them  were  turned 
artistically  in  such  a  position  as  to  show  their  inner  sides 
glistening  with  soft  tints  like  the  shades  of  fine  silk  or  satin — 
others  glittered  with  the  opaline  sheen  of  mother-o'-pearl. 
All  were  arranged  in  exquisite  patterns,  evidently  copied  from 
fixed  mathematical  designs — there  were  stars,  crescents,  roses, 
sun-flowers,  hearts,  crossed  daggers,  ships  and  implements  of 
war,  all  faithfully  depicted  with  extraordinary  neatness  and 
care,  as  though  each  particular  emblem  had  served  some  spe- 
cial purpose. 

Sir  Philip  walked  along  very  slowly,  delighted  with  his  dis- 
covery, and — pausing  to  examine  each  panel  as  he  passed — 
amused  himself  with  speculations  as  to  the  meaning  of  this 
beautiful  cavern,  so  fancifully  yet  skillfully  decorated. 

"Some  old  place  of  worship,  I  suppose,"  he  thought.  "There 
must  be  many  such  hidden  in  different  parts  of  Norway.  It 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  Christian  faith,  for  among  all  these 
devices  I  don't  perceive  a  single  cross." 

He  was  right.  There  were  no  crosses;  but  there  were  many 
designs  of  the  sun — the  sun  rising,  the  sun  setting,  the  sun  in 
full  glory,  with  all  his  rays  embroidered  round  him  in  tiny 
shells,  some  of  them  no  bigger  than  a  pin's  head. 

"What  a  waste  of  time  and  labor,"  he  mused.  "Who  would 
undertake  such  a  thing  nowadays?  Fancy  the  patience  an^l 
delicacy  of  finger  required  to  fit  all  these   shells  in  their 


THBLMA.  19 

places!  and  they  are  imbedded  in  strong  mortar,  too,  as  if  the 
work  were  meant  to  be  indestructible." 

Full  of  pleased  interest,  he  pursued  his  way,  winding  in  and 
out  through  different  arches,  all  more  or  less  richly  orna- 
mented, till  he  came  to  a  tall,  round  column,  which  seemingly 
supported  the  whole  gallery,  for  all  the  arches  converged 
toward  it.  It  was  garlanded  from  top  to  bottom  with  roses  and 
their  leaves,  all  worked  in  pink  and  lilac  shells,  interspersed 
with  small  pieces  of  shining  amber  and  polished  malachite. 
The  flicker  of  the  lamp  he  carried  made  it  glisten  like  a  mass 
of  jewel-work,  and,  absorbed  in  his  close  examination  of  this 
unique  specimen  of  ancient  art.  Sir  Philip  did  not  at  once  per- 
ceive that  another  light  beside  his  own  glimmered  from  out  the 
furthest  archway  a  little  beyond  him — an  opening  that  led 
into  some  recess  he  had  not  as  yet  explored.  A  peculiar  luster 
sparkling  on  one  side  of  the  shell-work,  however,  at  last  at- 
tracted his  attention,  and,  glancing  up  quickly,  he  saw,  to  his 
surprise,  the  reflection  of  a  strange  radiance,  rosily  tinted  and 
brilliant. 

Turning  in  its  direction,  he  paused,  irresolute.  Could  there 
be  some  one  living  in  that  furthest  chamber  to  which  the  long 
passage  he  had  followed  evidently  led?  some  one  who  would 
perhaps  resent  his  intrusion  as  an  impertinence?  some  eccen- 
tric artist  or  hermit  who  had  made  the  cave  his  home?  Or 
was  it  perhaps  a  refuge  for  smugglers?  He  listened  anxiously. 
There  was  no  sound.  He  waited  a  minute  or  two,  then  boldly 
advanced,  determined  to  solve  the  mystery. 

This  last  archway  was  lower  than  any  of  those  he  had 
passed  through,  and  he  was  forced  to  take  off  his  hat  and 
stoop  as  he  went  under  it.  When  he  raised  his  head  he  re- 
mained uncovered,  for  he  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  place  was 
sacred.  He  was  in  the  presence,  not  of  Life,  but  Death.  The 
chamber  in  which  he  stood  was  square  in  form,  and  more 
richly  ornamented  with  shell  designs  than  any  other  portion 
of  the  grotto  he  had  seen,  and  facing  the  east  was  an  altar 
hewn  out  of  the  solid  rock,  and  studded  thickly  with  amber, 
malachite  and  mother-o'-pearl.  It  was  covered  with  the  in- 
comprehensible emblems  of  a  by-gone  creed  worked  in  most 
exquisite  shell  patterns,  but  on  it — as  though  in  solemn  pro- 
test against  the  past — stood  a  crucifix  of  ebony  and  carved 
ivory  before  Avhicb  burned  steadily  a  red  lamp. 

The  meaning  of  the  mysterious  light  was  thus  explained, 


20  -  THELMA. 

but  what  chiefly  interested  Errington  was  the  central  object 
of  the  place — a  colfin — or  rather  a  plain  granite  sarcophagus 
which  was  placed  on  the  floor  lying  from  north  to  south. 
Upon  it — in  strange  contrast  to  the  somber  coldness  of  the 
stone — reposed  a  large  wreath  of  poppies  freshly  gathered. 
The  vivid  scarlet  of  the  flowers,  the  gleam  of  the  shining 
shells  on  the  walls,  the  mournful  figure  of  the  ivory  Christ 
stretched  on  the  cross  among  all  those  pagan  emblems — the 
intense  silence  broken  only  by  the  slow  drip,  drip  of  water 
trickling  somewhere  behind  the  cavern — and  more  than  these 
outward  things — his  own  impressive  conviction  that  he  was 
with  the  imperial  Dead — imperial  because  past  the  sway  of 
empire — all  made  a  powerful  impression  on  his  mind.  Over- 
coming by  degrees  his  first  sensations  of  awe,  he  approached 
the  sarcophagus  and  examined  it.  It  was  solidly  closed  and 
mortared  all  round,  so  that  it  might  have  been  one  compact 
coffin-shaped  block  of  stone  so  far  as  its  outward  appearance 
testified.  Stooping  more  closely,  however,  to  look  at  the 
brilliant  poppy  wreath,  he  started  back  with  a  slight  exclama- 
tion. Cut  deeply  in  the  hard  granite  he  read  for  the  second 
time  that  odd  name — 

THELMA, 

It  belonged  to  some  one  dead,  then — not  to  the  lovely  living 
woman  who  had  so  lately  confronted  him  in  the  burning  glow 
of  the  midnight  sun?  He  felt  dismayed  at  his  unthinking  pre- 
cipitation— he  had,  in  his  fancy,  actually  associated  her,  so 
full  of  radiant  health  and  beauty,  with  what  was  probably  a 
moldering  corpse  in  that  hermetically  sealed  tenement  of 
stone.  This  idea  was  unpleasant,  and  jarred  upon  his  feel- 
ings. Surely  she,  that  golden-haired  nymph  of  the  fjord,  had 
nothing  to  do  with  death.  He  had  evidently  found  his  way 
into  some  ancient  tomb.  "Thelma"  might  be  the  name  or 
title  of  some  long-departed  queen  or  princess  of  Norway,  yet 
if  so,  how  came  the  crucifix  there — the  red  lamp,  the  flowers? 

He  lingered,  looking  curiously  about  him,  as  if  he  fancied 
the  shell-embroidered  walls  might  whisper  some  answer  to  his 
thoughts.  The  silence  ofl'ered  no  suggestions.  The  plaintive 
figure  of  the  tortured  Christ  suspended  on  the  cross  maintained 
an  immovable  watch  over  all  things,  and  there  was  a  subtle, 
faint  odor  floating  about  as  of  crushed  spices  or  herbs.  While 
he  still  stood  there  absorbed  in  perplexed  conjectures,  he  be- 


THELMA.  21 

came  oppressed  by  want  of  air.  The  red  hue  of  the  poppy 
wreath  mingled  with  the  softer  glow  of  the  lamp  on  the  altar 
— the  moist  glitter  of  the  shells  and  polished  pebbles  seemed 
to  dazzle  and  confuse  his  eyes.  He  felt  dizzy  and  faint — and 
hastily  made  his  way  out  of  that  close  death-chamber  into  the 
passage,  where  he  leaned  for  a  few  minutes  against  the  great 
central  column  to  recover  himself.  A  brisk  breath  of  wind 
from  the  fjord  came  careering  through  the  gallery,  and  blew 
coldly  upon  his  forehead.  Eefreshed  by  it,  he  rapidly  over- 
came the  sensation  of  giddiness,  and  began  to  retrace  his 
steps  through  the  winding  arches,  thinking  with  some  satis- 
faction as  he  went,  what  a  romantic  incident  he  would  have  to 
relate  to  Lorimer  and  his  other  friends,  when  a  sudden  glare 
of  light  illumined  the  passage,  and  he  was  brought  to  an 
abrupt  stand-still  by  the  sound  of  a  wild  "Halloo!"  The  light 
vanished;  it  reappeared.  It  vanished  again,  and  again  ap- 
peared, flinging  a  strong  flare  upon  the  shell-worked  walls  as 
it  approached.  Again  the  fierce  "Halloo!"  resounded  through 
the  hollow  cavities  of  the  subterranean  temple,  and  he  re- 
mained motionless,  waiting  for  an  explanation  of  this  un- 
looked-for turn  to  the  events  of  the  morning. 

He  had  plenty  of  physical  courage,  and  the  idea  of  any 
addition  to  his  adventure  rather  pleased  him  than  otherwise. 
Still,  with  all  his  bravery,  he  recoiled  a  little  when  he  first 
caught  sight  of  the  extraordinary  being  that  emerged  from 
the  darkness — a  wild,  distorted  figure  that  ran  toward  him 
with  its  head  downward,  bearing  aloft  in  one  skinny  hand  a 
smoking  pine-torch,  from  which  the  sparks  flew  like  so  many 
fire-flies.  This  uncanny  personage,  wearing  the  semblance  of 
man,  came  within  two  paces  of  Errington  before  perceiving 
him,  then,  stopping  short  in  his  headlong  career,  the  creature 
flourished  his  torch  and  uttered  a  defiant  yell. 

Philip  surveyed  him  coolly  and  without  alarm,"  though  so 
weird  an  object  might  well  have  aroused  a  pardonable  distrust, 
and  even  timidity.  He  saw  a  misshapen  dwarf,  not  quite  four 
feet  high,  with  large,  ungainly  limbs  out  of  all  proportion  to 
his  head,  which  was  small  and  compact.  His  features  were  of 
almost  feminine  fineness,  and  from  under  his  shaggy  brows 
gleamed  a  restless  pair  of  large,  full,  wild  blue  eyes.  His 
thick,  rough,  flaxen  hair  was  long  and  curly,  and  hung  in  dis- 
ordered profusion  over  his  deformed  shoulders.  His  dress 
was  of  reindeer  skin,  very  fancifully  cut,  and  ornamented  with 


22  THELMA. 

beads  of  different  colors,  and  twisted  about  him,  as  though  in 
an  effort  to  be  artistic,  was  a  long  strip  of  bright  scarlet 
woolen  material,  which  showed  up  the  extreme  pallor  and  ill- 
health  of  the  meager  countenance,  and  the  brilliancy  of  the 
eyes  that  now  sparkled  with  rage  as  they  met  those  of  Erring- 
ton.  He,  from  his  superior  height,  glanced  down  with  pity  on 
the  unfortunate  creature,  whom  he  at  once  took  to  be  the 
actual  owner  of  the  cave  he  had  explored.  Uncertain  what  to 
do,  whether  to  speak  or  remain  silent,  he  moved  slightly  as 
though  to  pass  on,  but  the  shock-headed  dwarf  leaped  lightly 
in  his  way,  and,  planting  himself  firmly  before  him,  shrieked 
some  unintelligible  threat,  of  which  Errington  could  only 
make  out  the  last  words,  "Nifieheim"  and  "Nastrond." 

"I  believe  he  is  commending  me  to  the  old  Norwegian 
inferno,"  thought  the  young  baronet,  with  a  smile,  amused  at 
the  little  man's  evident  excitement.  "Very  polite  of  him,  I'm 
sure.  But,  after  all,  I  had  no  business  here.  I'd  better  apolo- 
gize." And  forthwith  he  began  to  speak  in  the  simplest  Eng- 
lish words  he  could  choose,  taking  care  to  pronounce  them 
very  slowly  and  distinctly. 

"I  can  not  understand  you,  my  good  sir,  but  I  see  you  are 
angry.  I  came  here  by  accident.  I  am  going  away  now  at 
once." 

His  explanation  had  a  strange  effect.  The  dwarf  drew 
nearer,  twirled  himself  rapidly  round  three  times  as  though 
waltzing,  then,  holding  his  torch  a  little  to  one  side,  turned  up 
his  thin,  pale  countenance,  and,  fixing  his  gaze  on  Sir  Philip, 
studied  every  feature  of  his  face  with  absorbing  interest.  Then 
he  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  laughter. 

"At  last — at  last!"  he  cried  in  fluent  English.  "Going  now? 
Going,  you  say?  Never!  never!  You  \vill  never  go  away  any 
more.  No,  not  without  something  stolen.  The  dead  have 
summoned  you  here.  Their  white  bony  fingers  have  dragged 
you  across  the  deep.  Did  you  not  hear  their  voices,  cold  and 
hollow  as  the  winter  wind,  calling,  calling  you,  and  saying: 
'Come,  come,  proud  robber,  from  over  the  far  seas;  come  and 
gather  the  beautiful  rose  of  the  northern  forest?'  Yes,  yes! 
You  have  obeyed  the  dead — the  dead  who  feign  sleep,  but  are 
ever  wakeful — you  have  come  as  a  thief  in  the  golden  mid- 
night, and  the  thing  you  seek  is  the  life  of  Sigurd.  Yes — yes, 
it  is  true.  The  spirit  can  not  lie.  You  must  kill,  you  must 
steal.    See  how  the  blood  drips,  drop  by  drop,  from  the  heart 


THELMA.  23 

of  Sigurd!  And  the  jewel  you  steal — ah,  what  a  jewel! — you 
shall  not  find  such  another  in  Norway!" 

His  excited  voice  sunk  by  degrees  to  a  plaintive  and  forlorn 
whisper,  and  dropping  his  torch  with  a  gesture  of  despair  on 
the  ground,  he  looked  at  it  burning,  with  an  air  of  mournful 
and  utter  desolation.  Profoundly  touched,  as  he  immediately 
understood  the  condition  of  his  companion's  wandering  wits, 
Errington  spoke  to  him  soothingly. 

"You  mistake  me,"  he  said,  in  gentle  accents;  "I  would  not 
steal  anything  from  you,  nor  have  I  come  to  kill  you.  See," 
and  he  held  out  his  hand,  "I  wouldn't  harm  you  for  the  world. 
I  didn't  know  this  cave  belonged  to  you.  Forgive  me  for 
having  entered  it.  I  am  going  to  rejoin  my  friends.  Good- 
bye!" 

The  strange,  half-crazy  creature  touched  his  outstretched 
hand  timidly  and  with  a  sort  of  appeal. 

"Good-bye,  good-bye!"  he  muttered.  "That  is  what  they 
all  say — even  the  dead — good-bye,  but  they  never  go — never, 
never!  You  can  not  be  different  to  the  rest.  And  you  do  not 
wish  to  hurt  poor  Sigurd  ?" 

"Certainly  not,  if  you  are  Sigurd,"  said  Philip,  half  laugh- 
ing; "I  should  be  very  sorry  to  hurt  you." 

"You  are  sure?"  he  persisted,  with  a  sort  of  obstinate  eager- 
ness. "You  have  eyes  which  tell  truths;  but  there  are  other 
things  which  are  truer  than  eyes — things  in  the  air,  in  the 
grass,  in  the  waves,  and  they  talk  very  strangely  of  you.  I 
know  you,  of  course.  I  knew  you  ages  ago — long  before  I  saw 
you  dead  on  the  field  of  battle,  and  the  black-haired  Val- 
kyrie galloped  with  you  to  Valhalla.  Yes,  I  knew  you  long 
before  that,  and  you  knew  me,  for  I  was  your  king,  and  you 
were  my  vassal,  wild  and  rebellious — not  the  proud,  rich 
Englishman  you  are  to-day." 

Errington  started.  How  could  this  Sigurd,  as  he  called 
himself,  be  aware  of  either  his  wealth  or  nationality? 

The  dwarf  observed  his  movement  of  surprise  with  a  cun- 
ning smile. 

"Sigurd  is  wise — Sigurd  is  brave.  Who  shall  deceive  him? 
He  knows  you  well;  he  will  always  know  you.  The  old  gods 
teach  Sigurd  all  his  wisdom — the  gods  of  the  sea  and  the  wind 
— the  sleepy  gods  that  lie  in  the  hearts  of  the  flowers — the 
small  spirits  that  sit  in  shells  and  sing  all  day  and  all  night." 


24  THELMA. 

He  paused,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  a  wistful  look  of  attention. 
He  drew  closer. 

"Come/'  he  said,  earnestly,  "come,  you  must  listen  to  my 
music;  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  what  it  means." 

He  picked  up  his  smouldering  torch  and  held  it  aloft  again, 
then,  beckoning  Errington  to  follow  him,  he  led  the  way  to  a 
small  grotto,  cut  deeply  into  the  wall  of  the  cavern.  Here 
there  were  no  shell  patterns.  Little  green  ferns  grew  thickly 
out  of  the  stone  crevices,  and  a  minute  runlet  of  water  trickled 
slowly  from  above,  freshening  the  delicate  frondage  as  it  fell. 
With  quick,  agile  fingers  he  removed  a  loose  stone  from  this 
aperture,  and  as  he  did  so  a  low  shuddering  wail  resounded 
through  the  arches — a  melancholy  moan  that  rose  and  sunk, 
and  rose  again  in  weird,  sorrowful  minor  echoes. 

"Hear  her,"  murmured  Sigurd,  plaintively.  "She  is  always 
complaining;  it  is  a  pity  she  can  not  rest.  She  is  a  spirit,  you 
know.  I  have  often  asked  her  what  troubles  her,  but  she  will 
not  tell  me;  she  only  weeps." 

His  companion  looked  at  him  compassionately.  The  sound 
that  so  afl^ected  his  disordered  imagination  was  nothing  but 
the  wind  blowing  through  the  narrow  hole  formed  by  the  re- 
moval of  the  stone,  but  it  was  useless  to  explain  this  simple 
fact  to  one  in  his  condition. 

"Tell  me,"  and  Sir  Philip  spoke  very  gently,  "is  this  your 
home?" 

The  dwarf  surveyed  him  almost  scornfully.  "My  home!" 
he  echoed.  "My  home  is  everywhere — on  the  mountains,  in 
the  forests,  on  the  black  rocks  and  barren  shores.  My  soul 
lives  between  the  sun  and  the  sea;  my  heart  is  with  Thelma!" 

Thelma!    Here  was  perhaps  a  clew  to  the  mystery. 

"Who  is  Thelma?"  asked  Errington,  somewhat  hurriedly. 

Sigurd  broke  into  violent  and  derisive  laughter.  "Do  you 
think  I  will  tell  you?"  he  cried  loudly.  "You — one  of  that 
strong,  cruel  race  who  must  conquer  all  they  see;  who  covet 
everything  fair  under  heaven,  and  will  buy  it,  even  at  the  cost 
of  blood  and  tears.  Do  you  think  I  will  unlock  the  door  of 
my  treasure  to  you?  'No,  no;  besides,"  and  his  voice  sunk 
lower,  "what  should  you  do  with  Thelma?    She  is  dead." 

And,  as  if  possessed  by  a  sudden  access  of  frenzy,  he  bran- 
dished his  pine-torch  wildly  above  his  head  till  it  showered  a 
rain  of  bright  sparks  above  him,  and  exclaimed,  furiously: 

"Away,  away,  and  trouble  me  not.    The  days  are  not  yet 


THELMA.  25 

fulfilled — the  time  is  not  yet  ripe.  Why  seek  to  hasten  my 
end?  Away,  away,  I  tell  you.  Leave  me  in  peace.  I  will 
die  when  Thelma  bids  me,  but  not  till  then." 

And  he  rushed  down  the  long  gallery  and  disappeared  in 
the  furthest  chamber,  where  he  gave  vent  to  a  sort  of  long 
sobbing  cry,  which  rang  dolefully  through  the  cavern  and 
then  subsided  into  utter  silence. 

Feeling  as  if  he  were  in  a  chaotic  dream,  Errington  pursued 
his  interrupted  course  through  the  winding  passages  with  a 
bewildered  and  wondering  mind.  What  strange  place  had  he 
inadvertently  lighted  on,  and  who  were  the  still  stranger 
beings  in  connection  with  it  ?  First  the  beautiful  girl  herself; 
next  the  mysterious  coffin,  hidden  in  its  fanciful  shell  temple; 
and  now  this  deformed  madman,  with  the  pale  face  and  fine 
eyes,  whose  utterances,  though  incoherent,  savored  somewhat 
of  poesy  and  prophecy.  And  what  spell  was  attached  to  that 
name  of  Thelma?  The  more  he  thought  of  his  morning's  ad- 
ventiire  the  more  puzzled  he  became.  As  a  rule,  he  believed 
more  in  the  commonplace  than  in  the  romantic — most  people 
do.  But  truth  to  tell,  romance  is  far  more  common  than  the 
commonplace.  There  are  few  who  have  not,  at  one  time  or 
other  of  their  lives,  had  some  strange  or  tragic  episode  woven 
into  the  tissue  of  their  every-day  existence,  and  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find  one  person,  even  among  humdrum  individuals, 
who,  from  birth  to  death,  has  experienced  nothing  out  of  the 
common. 

Errington  generally  dismissed  all  tales  of  adventure  as  mere 
exaggerations  of  heated  fancy,  and  had  he  read  in  some  book 
of  a  respectable  nineteenth  century  yachtsman  having  such  an 
interview  with  a  madman  in  a  sea  cavern  he  would  have 
laughed  at  the  affair  as  an  utter  improbability,  though  he 
could  not  have  explained  why  he  considered  it  improbable. 
But  now  it  had  occurred  to  himself,  he  was  both  surprised  and 
amused  at  the  whole  circumstance;  moreover,  he  was  suffi- 
ciently interested  and  curious  to  be  desirous  of  sifting  the 
matter  to  its  foundation. 

It  was,  however,  somewhat  of  a  relief  to  him  when  he  again 
reached  the  outer  cavern.  He  replaced  the  lamp  on  the  shelf 
where  he  had  found  it,  and  stepped  once  more  into  the  bril- 
liant light  of  the  very  early  dawn,  which  then  had  all  the 
splendor  of  full  morning.  There  was  a  deliciously  balmy 
wind,  the  blue  sky  was  musical  with  a  chorus  of  larks,  and 


26  THELMA. 

every  breath  of  air  that  waved  aside  the  long  grass  sent  forth 
a  thousand  odors  from  hidden  beds  of  wild  thyme  and  bog- 
myrtle. 

He  perceived  the  "Eulalie"  at  anchor  in  her  old  place  on 
the  fjord;  she  had  returned  while  he  was  absent  on  his  ex- 
plorations. Gathering  together  his  rug  and  painting  materi- 
als, he  blew  a  whistle  sharply  three  times;  he  was  answered 
from  the  yacht,  and  presently  a  boat,  manned  by  a  couple  of 
sailors,  came  skimming  over  the  water  toward  him.  It  soon 
reached  the  shore,  and  entering  it,  he  was  speedily  rowed  away 
from  the  scene  of  his  morning's  experience  back  to  his  floating 
palace,  where  as  yet,  none  of  his  friends  were  stirring. 

"How  about  Jedke?"  he  inquired  of  one  of  his  men.  "Did 
they  climb  it?" 

A  slow  grin  overspread  the  sailor's  brown  face. 

"Lord  bless  you,  no,  sir.  Mr.  Lorimer,  he  just  looked  at  it 
and  sat  down  in  the  shade;  the  other  gentlemen  played  pitch- 
and-toss  with  pebbles.  They  was  main  hungry  too,  and  eat  a 
mighty  sight  of  'am  and  pickles.  They  came  on  board  and  all 
turned  in  at  once." 

Errington  laughed.  He  was  amused  at  the  utter  failure  of 
Lorimer's  recent  sudden  energy,  but  not  surprised.  His 
thoughts  were,  however,  busied  with  something  else,  and  he 
next  asked: 

"Where's  our  pilot?" 

"Valdemar  Svensen,  sir?  He  went  down  to  his  bunk  as  soon 
as  we  anchored,  for  a  snooze,  he  said." 

"All  right.  If  he  comes  on  deck  before  I  do,  just  tell  him 
not  to  go  ashore  for  anything  till  I  see  him.  I  want  to  speak 
to  him  after  breakfast." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir." 

Whereupon  Sir  Philip  descended  to  his  private  cabin.  He 
drew  the  blind  at  the  port-hole  to  shut  out  the  dazzling  sun- 
light, for  it  was  nearly  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
quickly  undressing,  he  flung  himself  into  his  berth  with  a 
slight,  not  altogether  unpleasant,  feeling  of  exhaustion.  To 
the  last  as  his  eyes  closed  drowsily  he  seemed  to  hear  the  slow 
drip,  drip  of  the  water  behind  the  rocky  cavern,  and  the  deso- 
late cry  of  the  incomprehensible  Sigurd,  while  through  these 
sounds  that  mingled  with  the  gurgle  of  little  waves  lapping 
against  the  sides  of  the  "Eulalie,"  the  name  of  "Thelma" 
murmured  itself  in  his  ears  till  slumber  drowned  his  senses  in 
oblivion. 


THELMA.  27 


CHAPTEE  III. 

Hast  any  mortal  name, 

Fit  appellation  for  this  dazzling  frame, 

Or  friends  or  kinsfolk  on  the  citied  earth? 

Keats. 

"This  is  positively  absurd,"  murmured  Lorimer,  in  mildly 
injured  tones,  seven  hours  later,  as  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his 
berth,  surveying  Errington,  who,  fully  dressed  and  in  the 
highest  spirits,  had  burst  in  to  upbraid  him  for  his  laziness 
while  he  was  yet  but  scantily  attired.  "I  tell  you,  my  good 
fellow,  there  are  some  things  which  the  utmost  stretch  of 
friendship  will  not  stand.  Here  am  I  in  shirt  and  trousers 
with  only  one  sock  on,  and  you  dare  to  say  you  have  had  an  ad- 
venture. Why,  if  you  had  cut  a  piece  out  of  the  sun  you 
ought  to  wait  till  a  man  is  shaved  before  mentioning  it." 

"Don't  be  snappish,  old  boy,"  laughed  Errington,  gayly. 
"Put  on  that  other  sock  and  listen.  I  don't  want  to  tell  those 
other  fellows  just  yet;  they  might  go  making  inquiries  about 
her—" 

"Oh,  there  is  a  'her'  in  the  case,  is  there?"  said  Lorimer, 
opening  his  eyes  rather  widely.  "Well,  Phil!  I  thought  you 
had  had  enough,  and  something  too  much,  of  women." 

"This  is  not  a  woman!"  declared  Philip,  with  heat  and 
eagerness,  "at  least  not  the  sort  of  woman  I  have  ever  known. 
This  is  a  forest-empress,  a  sea-goddess,  or  sun-angel.  I  don't 
know  what  she  is,  upon  my  life!" 

Lorimer  regarded  him  with  an  air  of  reproachful  offense. 

"Don't  go  on — please  don't!"  he  implored.  "I  can't  stand 
it — I  really  can't!  Incipient  verse-mania  is  too  much  for  me. 
Forest-empress,  sea-goddess,  sun-angel — by  Jove!  what  next? 
You  are  evidently  in  a  very  bad  way.  If  I  remember  rightly, 
you  had  a  flask  of  that  old  green  Chartreuse  with  you.  Ah! 
that  accounts  for  it!     Nice  stuff,  but  a  little  too  strong." 

Errington  laughed,  and,  unabashed  by  his  friend's  raillery, 
proceeded  to  relate  with  much  vivacity  and  graphic  fervor  the 
occurrences  of  the  morning.  Lorimer  listened  patiently  with 
a  forbearing  smile  on  his  open,  ruddy  countenance.  When 
he  had  heard  everything  he  looked  up  and  inquired,  calmly: 

"This  is  not  a  yarn,  is  it?" 


28  THELMA. 

"A  yarn!"  exclaimed  Philip.  "Do  you  think  I  would  in- 
vent such  a  thing?" 

"Can't  say/'  returned  Lorimer,  imperturbably.  "You  are 
quite  capable  of  it.  It's  a  verj^  creditable  crammer,  due  to 
Chartreuse.  Might  have  been  designed  by  Victor  Hugo;  it's 
in  his  style.  Scene,  Norway — midnight.  Mysterious  maiden 
steals  out  of  a  cave  and  glides  away  in  a  boat  over  the  water; 
man,  the  hero,  goes  into  cave,  finds  a  stone  coffin,  says — 
'Qu''est-ce  que   c^est?    Dieu!     C'est  la  mort!'  Spectacle 

ajfreux!  Staggers  back  perspiring,  meets  mad  dwarf  with 
torch;  mad  dwarf  talks  a  good  deal — mad  people  always  do — 
then  yells  and  runs  away.  Man  comes  out  of  cave  and — and 
— goes  home  to  astonish  his  friends;  one  of  them  won't  be 
astonished — that's  me." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Errington.  "It's  a  true  story  for  all 
that.  Only,  I  say,  don't  talk  of  it  before  the  others;  let's 
keep  our  own  counsel — " 

"No  poachers  allowed  on  the  Sun-Angel  Manor!"  inter- 
rupted Lorimer,  gravely.  Phihp  went  on  without  heeding 
him. 

"I'll  question  Valdemar  Svensen  after  breakfast.  He  knows 
everybody  about  here.  Come  and  have  a  smoke  on  deck  when 
I  give  you  the  sign,  and  we'll  cross-examine  him." 

Lorimer  still  looked  incredulous.  "What's  the  good  of  it?" 
he  inquired,  languidly.  Even  if  it's  all  true  you  had  much 
better  leave  this  goddess,  or  whatever  you  call  her,  alone, 
especially  if  she  has  any  mad  connections.  What  do  you 
want  with  her?" 

"jSTothing!"  declared  Errington,  though  his  color  height- 
ened. "Nothing,  I  assure  you!  It's  just  a  matter  of  curiosity 
\^dth  me.  I  should  like  to  know  who  she  is — that's  all.  The 
aifair  won't  go  any  further." 

"How  do  you  know?"  and  Lorimer  began  to  brush  his  stiff 
curly  hair  with  a  sort  of  vicious  vigor.  "How  can  you  tell? 
I'm  not  a  spiritualist,  nor  any  sort  of  a  humbug  at  all,  I  hope, 
but  I  sometimes  indulge  in  presentiments.  Before  we  started 
on  this  cruise  I  was  haunted  by  that  dismal  old  ballad  of  Sir 
Patrick  Spens — 

"  'The  king's  daughter  of  Norroway 
'Tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hame!' 


THELMA.  29 

And  here  you  have  found  her,  or  so  it  appears.     What's  to 
come  of  it,  I  wonder?" 

"Nothing's  to  come  of  it;  nothing  will  come  of  it!"  laughed 
Philip.  "As  I  told  you,  she  said  she  was  a  peasant.  There's 
the  breakfast-bell!  Make  haste,  old  boy.  I'm  as  hungry  as 
a  hunter!'^ 

And  he  left  his  friend  to  finish  dressing,  and  entered  the 
saloon,  where  he  greeted  his  two  other  companions,  Alec,  or, 
as  he  was  oftener  called,  Sandy  Macfarlane,  and  Pierre  Du- 
prez;  the  former  an  Oxford  student — the  latter  a  young  fellow 
whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  in  Paris,  and  with  whom  he 
had  kept  up  a  constant  and  friendly  intercourse.  A  greater 
contrast  than  these  two  presented  could  scarcely  be  imagined. 
Macfarlane  was  tall  and  ungainly,  with  large  loose  joints  that 
seemed  to  protrude  angularly  out  of  him  in  every  direction — 
Duprez  was  short,  slight  and  wiry,  with  a  dapper  and  by  no 
means  ungraceful  figure.  The  one  had  formal,  gauche  man- 
ners, a  never-to-be-eradicated  Glasgow  accent,  and  a  slow, 
infinitely  tedious  method  of  expressing  himself — the  other  was 
full  of  restless  movement  and  pantomimic  gesture,  and  being 
proud  of  his  English,  plunged  into  that  language  recklessly, 
making  it  curiously  light  and  flippant,  though  picturesque, 
as  he  went.  Macfarlane  was  destined  to  become  a  shining 
light  of  the  established  Church  of  Scotland,  and  therefore 
took  life  very  seriously — Duprez  was  the  spoiled  only  child  of 
an  eminent  French  banker,  and  had  very  little  to  do  but  enjoy 
himself,  and  that  he  did  most  thoroughly,  without  any  calcu- 
lation or  care  for  the  future.  "  On  all  points  of  taste  and  opin- 
ion they  differed  widely;  but  there  was  no  doubt  about  their 
both  being  good-hearted  fellows,  without  any  affectation  of 
abnormal  vice  or  virtue. 

"So  you  did  not  climb  Jedke  after  all!"  remarked  Errington, 
laughingly,  as  they  seated  themselves  at  the  breakfast  table. 

"My  friend,  what  would  you!"  cried  Duprez.  "I  have  not 
said  that  I  will  climb  it;  no!  I  never  say  that  I  will  do  any- 
thing, because  I'm  not  sure  of  myself.  How  can  I  be?  It  is 
that  cher  enfant,  Lorimer,  that  said  such  brave  words.  See! — 
we  arrive;  we  behold  the  shore — all  black,  great,  vast! — rocks 
like  needles,  and,  higher  than  all,  this  most  fierce  Jedke — bah ! 
what  a  name! — straight  as  the  spire  of  a  cathedral.  One  must 
be  a  fly  to  crawl  up  it,  and  we,  we  are  not  flies — ma  foil  no! 
Lorimer,  he  laugh,  he  yawn — so!     He  say,  'Not  for  me  to- 


30  THBLMA. 

day;  I  very  much  thank  you!'  And  then,  we  watch  the  sun. 
Ah!  that  was  grand,  glorious,  beautiful!"  And  Duprez  kissed 
the  tips  of  his  fingers  in  ecstasy. 

"What  did  you  think  about  it,  Sandy?"  asked  Sir  Philip. 

"I  didna  think  much,"  responded  Macfarlane,  shortly.  "It's 
no  sae  grand  a  sight  as  a  sunset  in  Skye.  And  it's  an  uncanny 
business  to  see  the  sun  losin'  a'  his  poonctooality,  and  re- 
mainin'  stock  still,  as  it  were,  when  it's  his  plain  duty  to  set 
below  the  horizon.  Mysel',  I  think  it's  been  fair  overrated. 
It's  unnatural  an'  oot  o'  the  common,  say  what  ye  like." 

"Of  course  it  is,"  agreed  Lorimer,  who  just  then  sauntered 
in  from  his  cabin.  "Nature  is  most  unnatural.  I  always 
thought  so.  Tea  for  me,  Phil,  please;  coffee  wakes  me  up  too 
suddenly.     I  say,  what's  the  programme  to-day?" 

"Fishing  in  the  Alten,"  answered  Errington,  promptly. 

"That  suits  me  perfectly,"  said  Ijorimer,  as  he  leisurely 
sipped  his  tea.  "I'm  an  excellent  fisher.  I  hold  the  line  and 
generally  forget  to  bait  it.  Then — while  it  trails  harmlessly 
in  the  water,  I  doze;  thus  both  the  fish  and  I  are  happy." 

"And  this  evening,"  went  on  Errington,  "we  must  return 
the  minister's  call.  He's  been  to  the  yacht  twice.  We're 
bound  to  go  out  of  common  politeness." 

"Spare  us,  good  Lord!"  groaned  Lorimer. 

"What  a  delightfully  fat  man  is  that  good  religious!"  cried 
Duprez.     "A  living  proof  of  the  healthiness  of  Norway!" 

"He's  not  a  native,"  put  in  Macfarlane;  "he's  frae  York- 
shire. He's  only  been  a  matter  of  three  months  here,  filling 
the  place  o'  the  settled  meenister  who's  awa'  for  a  change  of 


air." 


"He's  a  precious  specimen  of  a  humbug,  anyhow,"  sighed 
Lorimer,  drearily.  "However,  I'll  be  civil  to  him  as  long  as 
he  doesn't  ask  me  to  hear  him  preach.  At  that  suggestion  I'll 
fight  him.     He's  soft  enough  to  bruise  easily." 

"Ye're  just  too  lazy  to  fight  onybody,"  declared  Macfarlane. 

Lorimer  smiled  sweetly.  "Thanks,  awfully!  I  dare  say 
3'ou're  right.  I've  never  found  it  worth  while  as  yet  to  exert 
myself  in  any  particular  direction.  No  one  has  asked  me  to 
exert  myself;  no  one  wants  me  to  exert  myself;  therefore,  why 
should  i?" 

"Don't  ye  want  to  get  on  in  the  world?"  asked  Macfarlane, 
almost  brusquely. 

"Dear  me,  no!     What  an  exhausting  idea!     Get  on  in  the 


THELMA.  31 

world — what  for?  I  have  five  hundred  a  year,  and  when  my 
mother  goes  over  to  the  majority  (long  distant  be  that  day, 
for  I'm  very  fond  of  the  dear  old  lady)  I  shall  have  five  thou- 
sand— more  than  enough  to  satisfy  any  sane  man  who  doesn't 
want  to  speculate  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  Your  case,  my 
good  Mac,  is  different.  You  will  he  a  celebrated  Scotch  di- 
vine. You  will  preach  to  a  crowd  of  pious  numskulls  about 
predestination,  and  so  forth.  You  will  be  stump-orator  for 
the  securing  of  seats  in  paradise.  Now,  now,  keep  calm! — 
don't  mind  me.  It's  only  a  figure  of  speech!  And  the  num- 
skulls will  call  you  a  'rare  powerfu'  rousin'  preacher' — isn't 
that  the  way  they  go  on?  and  when  you  die — for  die  you  must, 
most  unfortunately — they  will  give  you  a  three-cornered  block 
of  granite  (if  they  can  make  up  their  minds  to  part  with  the 
necessary  bawbees)  ^vith  your  name  prettily  engraved  thereon. 
That's  all  very  nice;  it  suits  some  people.  It  wouldn't  suit 
me." 

"What  would  suit  you?"  queried  Errington.  "You  find 
everything  more  or  less  of  a  bore." 

"Ah,  my  good  little  boy!"  broke  in  Duprez.  "Paris  is  the 
place  for  you.  You  should  live  in  Paris.  Of  that  you  would 
never  fatigue  yourself." 

"Too  much  absinthe,  secret  murder  and  suicidal  mania," 
returned  Lorimer,  meditatively.  "That  was  a  neat  idea  about 
the  coffins  though.     I  never  hoped  to  dine  off  a  coffin." 

"Ah!  you  mean  the  Taverne  de  I'Enfer?"  exclaimed  Du- 
prez. "Yes;  the  divine  waitresses  wore  winding-sheets,  and 
the  wine  was  served  in  imitation  skulls.  Excellent!  I  re- 
member; the  tables  were  shaped  like  coifins." 

"Gude  Lord  Almighty!"  piously  murmured  Macfarlane. 
"What  a  fearsome  sicht!" 

As  he  pronounced  these  words  with  an  unusually  marked 
accent,  Duprez  looked  inquiring. 

"What  does  our  Macfarlane  say?" 

"He  says  it  must  have  been  a  'fearsome  sicht,' "  repeated 
Lorimer,  with  even  a  stronger  accent  than  Sandy's  own, 
"which,  mon  cher  Pierre,  means  all  the  horrors  in  your  lan- 
guage; ajfreux,  epouvantable,  navrant — anything  you  like 
that  is  sufficiently  terrible." 

"Mais,  point  du  tout!"  cried  Duprez,  energetically.  "It  was 
charming!  It  made  us  laugh  at  death — so  much  better  than 
to  cry!     And  there  was  a  delicious  child  in  a  winding-sheet; 


32  THELMA. 

brown  curls,  laughing  eyes  and  little  mouth;  ha,  ha!  but  she 
was  well  worth  kissing!" 

"I'd  rather  follow  my  own  funeral  than  kiss  a  lass  in  a 
winding  sheet/'  said  Sandy,  in  solemn  and  horrified  tones. 
"It's  just  awfu'  to  think  on." 

"But  see,  my  friend,"  persisted  Duprez,  "you  would  not  be 
permitted  to  follow  your  own  funeral,  not  possible — woila! 
Y  ou  are  permitted  to  kiss  the  pretty  one  in  the  winding-sheet. 
It  is  possible.     Behold  the  difference!" 

"Never  mind  the  Taverne  de  I'Enf  er  just  now,"  said  Erring- 
ton,  who  had  finished  his  breakfast  hurriedly.  "It's  time  for 
you  fellows  to  get  your  fishing  toggery  on.  I'm  off  to  speak 
to  the  pilot." 

And  away  he  went,  followed  more  slowly  by  Lorimer,  who, 
though  he  pretended  indifference,  was  rather  curious  to  know 
more,  if  possible,  concerning  his  friend's  adventure  of  the 
morning.  They  found  the  pilot,  Valdemar  Svensen,  leaning 
at  his  ease  against  the  idle  wheel,  with  his  face  turned  toward 
the  eastern  sky.  He  was  a  stalwart  specimen  of  Norse  man- 
hood, tall  and  strongly  built,  with  thoughtful,  dignified  fea- 
tures, and  keen,  clear  hazel  eyes.  His  chestnut  hair,  plenti- 
fully sprinkled  with  gray,  clustered  thickly  over  a  broad  brow, 
that  was  deeply  furrowed  with  many  a  line  of  anxious  and 
speculative  thought,  and  the  forcible  brown  hand  that  rested 
lightly  on  the  spokes  of  the  wheel  told  its  own  tale  of  hard 
and  honest  labor.  Neither  wife  nor  child,  nor  living  relative 
had  Valdemar;  the  one  passion  of  his  heart  was  the  sea.  Sir 
Philip  Errington  had  engaged  him  at  Christiansund,  hearing 
of  him  there  as  a  man  to  whom  the  intricacies  of  the  fjords 
and  the  dangers  of  rock-bound  coasts  were  more  familiar  than 
a  straight  road  on  dry  land,  and  since  then  the  management 
of  the  "Eulalie"  had  been  entirely  intrusted  to  him.  Though 
an  eminently  practical  sailor,  he  was  half  a  mystie,  and  be- 
lieved in  the  wildest  legends  of  his  land  with  more  implicit 
faith  than  many  so-called  Christians  believe  in  their  sacred 
doctrines.  He  doffed  his  red  cap  respectfully  now  as  Erring- 
ton  and  Lorimer  approached,  smilingly  wishing  them  "a  fair 
day."  Sir  Philip  offered  him  a  cigar,  and,  coming  to  the  point 
at  once,  asked  abruptly: 

"I  say,  Svensen,  are  there  any  pretty  girls  in  Bosekop?" 

The  pilot  drew  the  newly  lighted  cigar  from  his  mouth,  and 


THELMA.  33 

passed  his  rough  hand  across  his  forehead  in  a  sort  of  grave 
perplexity. 

"It  is  a  matter  in  which  I  am  foohsh,"  he  said  at  last,  "for 
my  ways  have  always  gone  far  from  the  ways  of  women. 
Girls  there  are  plenty,  1  suppose,  but — "  he  mused  with  pon- 
dering patience  for  awhile.  Then  a  broad  smile  broke  like 
sunshine  over  his  imbrowned  countenance,  as  he  continued: 
"Now,  gentlemen,  I  do  remember  well,  it  is  said  that  at  Bose- 
kop  yonder  are  to  be  found  some  of  the  homeliest  wenches  in 
all  Norway." 

Errington's  face  fell  at  this  reply.  Lorimer  turned  away  to 
hide  the  mischievous  smile  that  came  on  his  lips  at  his  friend's 
discomfiture. 

"I  know  it  was  that  Chartreuse,"  he  thought  to  himself. 
"That  and  the  midnight  sun-eflects.     Nothing  else!" 

"What!"  went  on  Philip.  "No  good-looking  girls  at  all 
about  here,  eh?" 

Svensen  shook  his  head,  still  smiling. 

"Not  at  Bosekop,  sir,  that  I  ever  heard  of." 

"I  say!"  broke  in  Lorimer,  "are  there  any  old  tombs  or  sea- 
eaves,  or  places  of  that  sort  close  by  worth  exploring?" 

Valdemar  Svensen  answered  this  question  readily,  almost 
eagerly. 

"No,  sir!  There  are  no  antiquities  of  any  sort;  and  as  for 
caves  there  are  plenty,  but  only  the  natural  formations  of  the 
sea,  and  none  of  these  are  curious  or  beautiful  on  this  side  of 
the  fjord." 

Lorimer  poked  his  friend  secretly  in  the  ribs. 

"You've  been  dreaming,  old  fellow!"  he  whispered,  slyly. 
"I  knew  it  was  a  crammer!" 

Errington  shook  him  off  good-humoredly. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  he  said,  addressing  Valdemar  again  in 
distinct  accents,  "whether  there  is  any  place,  person,  or  thing 
near  here  called  Thelma?" 

The  pilot  started;  a  look  of  astonishment  and  fear  came  into 
his  eyes;  his  hand  went  instinctively  to  his  red  cap,  as  though 
in  deference  to  the  name. 

"The  Froken  Thelma!"  he  exclaimed,  in  low  tones.  "Is  it 
possible  that  you  have  seen  her?" 

"Ah,  George,  what  do  you  say  now?"  cried  Errington,  de- 
lightedly.    "Yes,  yes,  Valdemar;  the  Froken  Thelma,  as  you 

8 


34  THELMA. 

call  her.  Who  is  she?  What  is  she? — and  how  can  there  be 
no  pretty  girls  in  Bosekop  if  such  a  beautiful  creature  as  she 
lives  there?" 

Valdemar  looked  troubled  and  vexed. 
"Truly,  I  thought  not  of  the  maiden,"  he  said,  gravely. 
"  'Tis  not  for  me  to  speak  of  the  daughter  of  Olaf ,"  here  his 
voice  sunk  a  little,  and  his  face  grew  more  and  more  somber. 
"Pardon  me,  sir,  but  how  did  you  meet  her?" 

"By  accident,"  replied  Errington,  promptly,  not  caring  to 
relate  his  morning's  adventure  for  the  pilot's  benefit.  "Is  she 
some  great  personage  here?" 

Svensen  sighed,  and  smiled  somewhat  dubiously. 
"Great?  Oh,  no;  not  what  you  would  call  great.  Her  fath- 
er, Olaf  Guldmar,  is  a  bonde — that  is,  a  farmer  in  his  own 
right.  He  has  a  goodly  house,  and  a  few  fair  acres  well 
planted  and  tilled — also  he  pays  his  men  freely — but  those 
that  work  for  him  are  all  he  sees — neither  he  nor  his  daughter 
ever  visit  the  town.  They  dwell  apart,  and  have  nothing  in 
common  with  their  neighbors." 

"And  where  do  they  live?"  asked  Lorimer,  becoming  as  in- 
terested as  he  had  formerly  been  incredulous. 

The  pilot  leaned  lightly  over  the  rail  of  the  deck  and  pointed 
toward  the  west. 

"You  see  that  great  rock  shaped  like  a  giant's  helmet,  and 
behind  it  a  high  green  knoll,  clustered  thick  with  birch  and 
pine?" 

They  nodded  assent. 

"At  the  side  of  the  knoll  is  the  bonde's  house,  a  good  eight- 
mile  walk  from  the  outskirts  of  Bosekop.  Should  you  ever 
seek  to  rest  there,  gentlemen,"  and  Svensen  spoke  with  quiet 
resolution,  "I  doubt  whether  you  will  receive  a  pleasant  wel- 
come." 

And  he  looked  at  them  both  with  an  inquisitive  air,  as 
though  seeking  to  discover  their  intentions. 

"Is  that  so?"  drawled  Lorimer,  lazily,  giving  his  friend  an 
expressive  nudge.  "Ah!  We  sha'n't  trouble  them!  Thanks 
for  your  information,  Valdemar!  We  don't  intend  to  hunt  up 
the — what  d'ye  call  him? — the  bonde,  if  he's  at  all  surly. 
Hospitality  that  gives  you  greeting  and  a  dinner  for  nothing 
— that's  what  suits  me." 

"Our  people  are  not  without  hospitality,"  said  the  pilot, 
with  a  touch  of  wistful  and  appealing  dignity.     "All  along 


THELMA.  35 

your  journey,  gentlemen,  you  have  been  welcomed  gladly,  as 
you  know.  But  Olaf  Guldmar  is  not  like  the  rest  of  us;  he  has 
the  pride  and  fierceness  of  olden  days;  his  manners  and  cus- 
toms are  different;  and  few  like  him.     He  is  much  feared." 

"You  know  him  then?"  inquired  Errington,  carelessly. 

"I  know  him,"  returned  Valdemar,  quietly.  "And  his 
daughter  is  fair  as  the  sun  and  the  sea.  But  it  is  not  my 
place  to  speak  of  them — "  he  broke  off,  and  after  a  slightly 
embarrassed  pause,  asked:  "Will  theHerren  wish  to  sail  to- 
day?" 

"No,  Valdemar,"  answered  Errington,  indifferently.  "Not 
till  to-morrow,  when  we'll  visit  the  Kaa  Fjord  if  the  weather 
keeps  fair." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  and  the  pilot,  tacitly  avoiding  any  further 
converse  with  his  employer  respecting  the  mysterious  Thelma 
and  her  equally  mysterious  father,  turned  to  examine  the 
wheel  and  compass  as  though  something  there  needed  his 
earnest  attention.  Errington  and  Lorimer  strolled  up  and 
down  the  polished  white  deck  arm  in  arm,  talking  in  low 
tones. 

"You  didn't  ask  him  about  the  coffin  and  the  dwarf,"  said 
Lorimer. 

"No;  because  I  believe  he  knows  nothing  of  either,  and  it 
would  be  news  to  him  which  I'm  not  bound  to  give.  If  I  can 
manage  to  see  the  girl  again  the  mystery  of  the  cave  may  ex- 
plain itself." 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Errington  looked  meditative.  "Nothing  at  present.  We'll 
go  fishing  with  the  others.  But,  I  tell  you  what,  if  you're  up 
to  it,  we'll  leave  Duprez  and  Macfarlane  at  the  minister's 
house  this  evening  and  tell  them  to  wait  for  us  there — once 
they  all  begin  to  chatter  they  never  know  how  time  goes. 
Meanwhile  you  and  I  will  take  the  boat  and  row  over  in  search 
of  this  farmer's  abode.  I  believe  there's  a  short  cut  to  it  by 
water;  at  any  rate  I  know  the  way  she  went." 

"  'I  know  the  way  she  went  home  with  her  maiden  posy!'  " 
quoted  Lorimer,  with  a  laugh.  "You  are  hit,  Phil,  'a  very 
palpable  hit!'  Who  would  have  thought  it!  Clara  Winsleigh 
needn't  poison  her  husband  after  all  in  order  to  marry  you, 
for  nothing  but  a  sun-empress  will  suit  you  now." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  George,"  said  Errington,  half  vexedly,  as 
the  hot  color  mounted  to  his  face  in  spite  of  himself.     "It  is 


36  THELMA. 

all  idle  curiosity,  nothing  else.  After  what  Svensen  told  us, 
I'm  quite  as  anxious  to  see  this  gruft*  old  bonde  as  his  daugh- 
ter." 

Lorimer  held  up  a  reproachful  finger.  "Now,  Phil,  don't 
stoop  to  duplicity— not  with  me,  at  any  rate.  Why  disguise 
your  feelings?  Why,  as  the  tragedians  say,  endeavor  to  crush 
the  noblest  and  best  emotions  that  ever  warm  the  boozum  of 
man?  CMvalrous  sentiment  and  admiration  for  beauty — 
chivalrous  desire  to  pursue  it  and  catch  it  and  call  it  your 
own— I  understand  it  all,  my  dear  boy!  But  my  prophetic 
soul  tells  me  you  will  have  to  strangle  the  excellent  Olaf  Guld- 
mar — heavens!  what  a  name! — before  you  will  be  allowed  to 
make  love  to  his  fair  chee-ild.  Then  don't  forget  the  mad- 
man with  the  torch — he  may  turn  up  in  the  most  unexpected 
fashion  and  give  you  no  end  of  trouble.  But,  by  Jove,  it  is  a 
romantic  affair,  positively  quite  stagey!  Something  will  come 
of  it,  serious  or  comic.     I  wonder  which?" 

Errington  laughed,  but  said  nothing  in  reply,  as  their  two 
companions  ascended  from  the  cabin  at  that  moment,  in  full 
attire  for  the  fishing  expedition,  followed  by  the  steward  bear- 
ing a  large  basket  of  provisions  for  luncheon — and  all  private 
conversation  came  to  an  end.  Hastening  the  rest  of  their 
preparations,  within  twenty  minutes  they  were  skimming 
across  the  fjord  in  a  long  boat  manned  by  four  sailors,  who 
rowed  with  a  will  and  sent  the  light  craft  scudding  through 
the  water  with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow.  Landing,  they 
climbed  the  dewy  hills  spangled  thick  with  forget-me-nots 
and  late  violets,  till  they  reached  a  shady  and  secluded  part  of 
the  river,  where,  surrounded  by  the  songs  of  hundreds  of 
sweet-throated  birds,  they  commenced  their  sport,  which  kept 
them  well  employed  till  a  late  hour  in  the  afternoon. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

Thou  art  violently  carried  away  from  grace;  there  is  a  devil 
haunts  thee  in  the  likeness  of  a  fat  old  man— a  tun  of  man  is  thy 
companion. — Shakespeabe. 

The  Eeverend  Charles  Dyceworthy  sat  alone  in  the  small 
dining-room  of  his  house  at  Bosekop,  finishing  a  late  tea,  and 
disposing  of  round  after  round  of  hot  buttered  toast  with  that 


THELMA.  37 

buave  alacrity  he  always  displayed  in  the  consumption  of  suc- 
culent eatables.  He  was  a  largely  made  man,  very  much  on 
the  wrong  side  of  fifty,  with  accumulations  of  unwholesome 
fat  on  every  available  portion  of  his  body.  His  round  face 
was  cleanly  shaven  and  shiny,  as  though  its  flabby  surface  were 
frequently  polished  with  some  sort  of  luminous  grease  instead 
of  the  customary  soap.  His  mouth  was  absurdly  small  and 
pursy  for  so  broad  a  countenance — his  nose  seemed  endeavor- 
ing to  retreat  behind  his  puffy  cheeks  as  though  painfully 
aware  of  its  own  insignificance — and  he  had  little,  sharp,  fer- 
ret-like eyes  of  a  dull  mahogany  brown,  which  were  utterly 
destitute  of  even  the  faintest  attempt  at  any  actual  expression. 
They  were  more  like  glass  beads  than  eyes,  and  glittered  under 
their  scanty  fringe  of  pale-colored  lashes  with  a  sort  of  shal- 
low cunning  which  might  mean  malice  or  good-humor — no 
one  looking  at  them  could  precisely  determine  which.  His 
hair  was  of  an  indefinite  shade,  neither  light  nor  dark,  some- 
what of  the  tinge  of  a  dusty  potato  before  it  is  washed  clean. 
It  was  neatly  brushed  and  parted  in  the  middle  with  mathe- 
matical precision,  while  from  the  back  of  his  head  it  was 
brought  in  two  projections,  one  on  each  side,  like  budding 
wings  behind  his  ears.  It  was  impossible  for  the  most  fastidi- 
ous critic  to  find  fault  with  the  lieverend  Mr.  Dyceworthy's 
hands.  He  had  beautiful  hands,  white,  soft,  plump  and  well- 
shaped — his  delicate  filbert  nails  were  trimmed  with  punctil- 
ious care,  and  shone  with  a  pink  luster  that  was  positively 
charming.  He  was  evidently  an  amiable  man,  for  he  smiled 
to  himself  over  his  tea — he  had  a  trick  of  smiling — ill-natured 
people  said  he  did  it  on  purpose,  in  order  to  widen  his  mouth 
and  make  it  more  in  proportion  to  the  size  of  his  face.  Such 
remarks,  however,  emanated  only  from  the  spiteful  and  envious 
who  could  not  succeed  in  winning  the  social  popularity  that 
everywhere  attended  Mr.  Dyceworthy's  movements.  For  he 
was  undoubtedly  popular — no  one  could  deny  that.  In  the 
small  Yorkshire  town  where  he  usually  had  his  abode,  he  came 
little  short  of  being  adored  by  the  women  of  his  own  particular 
sect,  who  crowded  to  listen  to  his  fervent  discourses,  and 
came  away  from  them  on  the  verge  of  hysteria,  so  profoundly 
moved  were  their  sensitive  souls  by  his  damnatory  doctrines. 
The  men  were  more  reluctant  in  their  admiration,  yet  even 
they  were  always  ready  to  admit  "that  he  was  an  excellent  fel- 
low, with  his  heart  in  the  right  place." 


38  THELMA. 

He  had  a  convenient  way  of  getting  ill  at  the  proper  seasons, 
and  of  requiring  immediate  change  of  air,  whereupon  his  grate- 
ful flock  were  ready  and  willing  to  subscribe  the  money  neces- 
sary for  their  beloved  preacher  to  take  repose  and  relaxation 
in  any  part  of  the  world  he  chose.  This  year,  however,  they 
had  not  been  asked  to  furnish  the  usual  funds  for  traveling 
expenses,  for  the  resident  minister  of  Bosekop,  a  frail,  gentle 
old  man,  had  been  seriously  prostrated  during  the  past  winter 
with  an  affection  of  the  lungs,  which  necessitated  his  going 
to  a  different  climate  for  change  and  rest.  Knowing  Dyce- 
worthy  as  a  zealous  member  of  the  Lutheran  persuasion,  and, 
moreover,  as  one  who  had  in  his  youth  lived  for  some  years  in 
C'hristiania — thereby  gaining  a  knowledge  of  the  Norwegian 
tongue — he  invited  him  to  take  his  place  for  his  enforced  time 
of  absence,  offering  him  his  house,  his  servants,  his  pony-car- 
riage and  an  agreeable  pecuniary  douceur  in  exchange  for  his 
services — proposals  which  the  Eeverend  Charles  eagerly  ac- 
cepted. Though  Norway  was  not  exactly  new  to  him,  the 
region  of  the  Alien  Fjord  was,  and  he  at  once  felt,  though  he 
knew  not  why,  that  the  air  there  would  be  the  very  thing  to 
benefit  his  delicate  constitution.  Besides,  it  looked  well  for 
at  least  one  occasion,  to  go  away  for  the  summer  without  ask- 
ing his  congregation  to  pay  for  his  trip.  It  was  generous  on 
his  part,  almost  noble. 

The  ladies  of  his  flock  wept  at  his  departure  and  made  him 
socks,  comforters,  slippers,  and  other  consoling  gear  of  like 
description  to  recall  their  sweet  memories  to  his  saintly  mind 
during  his  absence  from  their  society.  But,  truth  to  tell,  Mr. 
Dyceworthy  gave  little  thought  to  these  fond  and  regretful 
fair  ones;  he  was  much  too  comfortable  at  Bosekop  to  look 
back  with  any  emotional  yearning  to  the  ugly,  precise  little 
provincial  town  he  had  left  behind  him.  The  minister's  quaint, 
pretty  house  suited  him  perfectly;  the  minister's  servants  were 
most  punctual  in  their  services;  the  minister's  phaeton  conven- 
iently held  his  cumbrous  person,  and  the  minister's  pony  was 
a  quiet  beast,  that  trotted  good-temperedly  wherever  it  was 
guided,  and  shied  at  nothing.  Yes,  he  was  thoroughly  com- 
fortable— as  comfortable  as  a  truly  pious  fat  man  deserves  to 
be,  and  all  the  work  he  had  to  do  was  to  preach  twice  on  Sun- 
days, to  a  quiet,  primitive,  decently  ordered  congregation,  who 
listened  to  his  words  respectfully  though  without  displaying 
any  emotional  rapture.  Their  stolidity,  however,  did  not  affect 


THELMA.  39 

him — he  preached  to  please  himself — loving  above  all  things 
to  hear  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  and  never  so  happy  as 
when  thundering  fierce  denunciations  against  the  Church  of 
Rome.  His  thoughts  seemed  tending  in  that  direction  now, 
as  he  poured  himself  out  his  third  cup  of  tea  and  smilingly 
shook  his  head  over  it,  while  he  stirred  the  cream  and  sugar 
in — for  he  took  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  a  small  glittering 
object  and  laid  it  before  him  on  the  table,  still  shaking  his 
head  and  smiling  with  a  patient,  yet  reproachful  air  of  super- 
ior wisdom.  It  was  a  crucifix  of  mother-o'-pearl  and  silver, 
the  symbol  of  the  Christian  faith.  But  it  seemed  to  carry  no 
sacred  suggestions  to  the  soul  of  Mr.  Dyceworthy.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  looked  at  it  with  an  expression  of  meek  ridicule — 
ridicule  that  bordered  on  contempt. 

"A  Eoman,"  he  murmured  placidly  to  himself,  between  two 
large  bites  of  toast.  "The  girl  is  a  Roman,  and  thereby  hope- 
lessly damned." 

And  he  smiled  again — more  sweetly  than  before,  as  though 
the  idea  of  hopeless  damnation  suggested  some  peculiarly 
agreeable  reflections.  And  folding  his  fine  cologne-scented 
cambric  handkerchief,  he  carefully  wiped  his  fat  white  fingers 
free  from  the  greasy  marks  of  the  toast,  and,  taking  up  the 
objectionable  cross  gingerly,  as  though  it  were  red-hot,  he 
examined  it  closely  on  all  sides.  There  were  some  words  en- 
graved on  the  back  of  it,  and  after  some  trouble  Mr.  Dyce- 
worthy spelled  them  out.  They  were  "Passio  Christi,  conforta 
me.      Thelma" 

He  shook  his  head  with  a  sort  of  resigned  cheerfulness. 

"Hopelessly  danmed,"  he  murmured  again,  gently,  "un- 
less— " 

What  alternative  suggested  itself  to  his  mind  was  not  pre- 
cisely apparent,  for  his  thoughts  suddenly  turned  in  a  more 
frivolous  direction.  Rising  from  the  now  exhausted  tea-table, 
he  drew  out  a  small  pocket-mirror  and  surveyed  himself  there- 
in with  mild  approval.  With  the  extreme  end  of  his  handker- 
chief he  tenderly  removed  two  sacrilegious  crumbs  that  pre- 
sumed to  linger  in  the  corners  of  his  piously  pursed  mouth. 
In  the  same  way  he  detached  a  morsel  of  congealed  butter  that 
clung  pertinaciously  to  the  end  of  his  bashfully  retreating 
nose.  This  done,  he  again  looked  at  himself  with  increased 
satisfaction,  and  putting  by  his  pocket-mirror  rang  the  bell. 
It  was  answered  at  once  by  a  tall,  strongly  built  woman,  with 


40  THELMA. 

colorless,  stolid  countenance — that  might  have  been  carved 
out  of  wood  for  any  expression  it  had  in  it. 

"Ulrika,"  said  Mr.  Dyceworthy,  blandly,  "you  can  clear  the 
table." 

Ulrika,  without  answering,  began  to  pack  the  tea-things  to- 
gether in  a  methodical  way,  without  clattering  so  much  as  a 
plate  or  spoon,  and,  piling  them  compactly  on  the  tray,  was 
about  to  leave  the  room,  when  Mr.  Dyceworthy  called  to  her: 
"Ulrika!" 

"Sir?" 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  thing  like  this  before?"  and  he  held  up 
the  crucifix  to  her  gaze. 

The  woman  shuddered,  and  her  dull  eyes  lighted  up  with  a 
sudden  terror. 

"It  is  the  witch's  charm!"  she  muttered,  thickly,  while  her 
pale  face  grew  yet  paler.  "Burn  it,  sir! — burn  it,  and  the 
power  will  leave  her." 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  laughed  indulgently.  "My  good  woman, 
you  mistake,"  he  said,  suavely.  "Your  zeal  for  the  true  gos- 
pel leads  you  into  error.  There  are  thousands  of  misguided 
persons  who  worship  such  a  thing  as  this.  It  is  often  all  of 
our  dear  Lord  they  know.  Sad,  very  sad!  But  still,  though 
they,  alas!  are  not  of  the  elect,  and  are  plainly  doomed  to  per- 
dition— they  are  not  precisely  what  are  termed  witches,  Ul- 
rika." 

"She  is,"  replied  the  woman  with  a  sort  of  ferocity;  "and 
if  I  had  my  way,  I  would  tell  her  so  to  her  face,  and  see  what 
would  happen  to  her  then!" 

"Tut,  tut!"  remarked  Mr.  Dyceworthj'-,  amiably.  "The  days 
of  witchcraft  are  past.  You  show  some  little  ignorance,  Ul- 
rika. You  are  not  acquainted  with  the  great  advancement  of 
recent  learning." 

"May  be,  may  be,"  and  Ulrika  turned  to  go:  but  she  mut- 
tered sullenly  as  she  went:  "There  be  them  that  know  and 
could  tell,  and  them  that  will  have  her  yet." 

She  shut  the  door  behind  her  with  a  sharp  clang,  and,  left 
to  himself,  Mr.  Dyceworthy  again  smiled — such  a  benignant, 
fatherly  smile!  He  then  walked  to  the  window  and  looked 
out.  It  was  past  seven  o'clock,  an  hour  that  elsewhere  would 
have  been  considered  evening,  but  in  Bosekop  at  that  season  it 
still  seemed  afternoon. 

The  sun  was  shining  brilliantly,  and  in  the  minister's  front 


THELMA.  41 

garden  the  roses  were  all  wide  awake.  A  soft  moisture  glit- 
tered on  every  tiny  leaf  and  blade  of  grass.  The  penetrating 
and  delicious  odor  of  sweet  violets  scented  each  puff  of  wind, 
and  now  and  then  the  call  of  the  cuckoo  pierced  the  air  with  a 
subdued,  far-olf  shrillness. 

From  his  position  Mr.  Dyceworthy  could  catch  a  glimpse 
through  the  trees  of  the  principal  thoroughfare  of  Bosekop — a 
small,  primitive  street  enough,  of  little  low  houses,  which, 
though  unpretending  from  without,  were  roomy  and  comfort- 
able within.  The  distant,  cool  sparkle  of  the  waters  of  the 
fjord,  the  refreshing  breeze,  the  perfume  of  the  flowers,  and 
the  satisfied  impression  left  on  his  mind  by  recent  tea  and 
toast — all  these  things  combined  had  a  soothing  effect  on  Mr. 
Dyceworthy,  and  with  a  sigh  of  absolute  comfort  he  settled 
his  large  person  in  a  deep  easy-chair  and  composed  himself  for 
pious  meditation. 

He  meditated  long — with  fast-closed  eyes  and  open  mouth, 
while  the  earnestness  of  his  inward  thoughts  was  clearly  dem- 
onstrated now  and  then  by  an  irrepressible — almost  trium- 
phant— cornet-blast  from  that  trifling  elevation  of  his  counte- 
nance called  by  courtesy  a  nose,  when  his  blissful  reverie  was 
suddenly  broken  in  upon  by  the  sound  of  several  footsteps 
crunching  slowly  along  the  garden  path,  and,  starting  up  from 
his  chair,  he  perceived  four  individvials  clad  in  white  flannel 
costumes  and  wearing  light  straw  hats  trimmed  with  flutter- 
ing blue  ribbons,  who  were  leisurely  sauntering  up  to  his 
door,  and  stopping  occasionally  to  admire  the  flowers  on  their 
way.  Mr.  Dyceworthy's  face  reddened  visibly  with  excite- 
ment. 

"The  gentlemen  from  the  yacht,"  he  murmured  to  himself, 
hastily  settling  his  collar  and  cravat,  and  pushing  up  his 
cherubic  wings  of  hair  more  prominently  behind  his  ears.  "I 
never  thought  they  would  come.  Dear  me!  Sir  Philip  Er- 
rington  himself,  too!    I  must  have  refreshments  instantly." 

And  he  hurried  from  the  room,  calling  his  orders  to  IJlrika 
as  he  went,  and  before  the  visitors  had  time  to  ring,  he  had 
thrown  open  the  door  to  them  himself,  and  stood  smiling 
urbanely  on  the  threshold,  welcoming  them  with  enthusiasm 
— and  assuring  Sir  Philip  especially  how  much  honored  he  felt 
by  his  thus  visiting,  familiarly  and  unannounced,  his  humble 
dwelling.  Errington  waved  his  many  compliments  good- 
humoredly  aside,  and  allowed  himself  and  his  friends  to  be 


42  THELMA. 

marshaled  into  the  best  parlor,  the  draAving-room  of  the  house, 
a  pretty  little  apartment  whose  window  looked  out  upon  a 
tangled  yet  graceful  wilderness  of  flowers. 

"Nice,  cozy  place  this,"  remarked  Lorimer,  as  he  seated 
himself  negligently  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa.  "You  must  be 
pretty  comfortable  here?" 

Their  perspiring  and  affable  host  rubbed  liis  soft  white 
hands  together  gently. 

"I  thank  Heaven  it  suits  my  simple  needs,"  he  answered, 
meekly.    "Luxuries  do  not  become  a  poor  servant  of  God." 

"Ah,  then  you  are  different  to  many  others  who  profess  to 
serve  the  same  Master,"  said  Duprez,  A\-ith  a  sourire  /?w  that 
had  the  devil's  own  mockery  in  it.  "llonsietcr  le  bon  Dieu  is 
very  impartial!  Some  serve  Him  by  constant  overfeeding, 
others  by  constant  overstarving;  it  is  all  one  to  Him  appar- 
ently! How  do  you  know  which  among  His  servants  He  likes 
best,  the  fat  or  the  lean?" 

Sandy  Macfarlane,  though  slightly  a  bigot  for  his  own  form 
of  doctrine,  broke  into  a  low  chuckle  of  irrepressible  laughter 
at  Duprez's  levity,  but  Mr.  Dyceworthy's  flabby  face  betok- 
ened the  utmost  horror. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  gravely,  "there  are  subjects  concerning  which 
it  is  not  seemly  to  speak  without  due  reverence.  He  knoweth 
His  own  elect.  He  hath  chosen  them  out  from  the  beginning. 
He  summoned  forth  from  the  million,  the  glorious  apostle  of 
reform,  Martin  Luther — " 

'' Lehon gaillarcW  laughed  Duprez,  "Tempted  by  a  pretty 
nun!  What  man  could  resist!  Myself,  I  would  try  to  upset 
all  the  creeds  of  this  world  if  I  saw  a  pretty  nun  worth  my 
trouble.  Yes,  truly!  A  pity,  though,  that  the  poor  Luther 
died  of  overeating;  his  exit  from  life  was  so  undignified!" 

"Shut  up,  Duprez,"  said  Errington,  severely.  "You  don't 
please  Mr.  Dyceworthy  by  your  fooling." 

"Oh,  pray  do  not  mention  it,  Sir  Philip,"  murmured  the 
reverend  gentleman  with  a  mild  patience.  "We  must  accus- 
tom ourselves  to  hear  Avith  forbearance  the  opinions  of  all 
men,  howsoever  contradictory,  otherwise  our  vocation  is  of 
no  avail.  Yet  is  it  sorely  grievous  to  me  to  consider  that 
there  should  be  any  person  or  persons  existent  who  lack  the 
necessary  faith  requisite  for  the  performance  of  God's  prom- 


ises." 


'Ye  must  understand,  Mr.  Dyceworthy,"  said  Macfarlane  in 


THELMA.  43 

his  slow,  deliberate  manner,  "that  ye  have  before  ye  a  young 
Frenchman  who  doesna  believe  in  onything  except  himsel' — 
and  even  as  to  whether  lie  himsel'  is  a  mon  or  a  myth,  he  has 
his  doots — verra  grave  doots." 

Duprez  nodded  delightedly.  "That  is  so!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Our  dear  Sandy  puts  it  so  charmingly!  To  be  a  myth  seems 
original — to  be  a  mere  man  quite  ordinary.  I  believe  it  is 
possible  to  find  some  good  scientific  professor  who  would  prove 
me  to  be  a  myth — the  moving  shadow  of  a  dream — imagine! — 
how  perfectly  poetical!" 

"Yoa  talk  too  much  to  be  a  dream,  my  boy,"  laughed  Er- 
rington,  and  turning  to  Mr.  Dyceworthy,  he  added:  "I'm 
afraid  you  must  think  us  a  shocking  set.  We  are  really  none 
of  us  very  religious,  I  fear,  though,"  and  he  tried  to  look  seri- 
ous; "if  it  had  not  been  for  Mr.  Lorimer,  we  should  have 
come  to  church  last  Sunday.  Mr.  Lorimer  was,  unfortunately, 
rather  indisposed." 

"Ya-as!"  drawled  that  gentleman,  turning  from  the  little 
window  where  he  had  been  gathering  a  rose  for  his  button- 
hole. "I  was  knocked  up;  had  fits,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing; 
took  these  three  fellows  all  their  time  Sunday  to  hold  me 
down!" 

"Dear  me!"  and  Mr.  Dyceworthy  was  about  to  make  further 
inquiries  concerning  Mr.  Lorimer's  present  state  of  health, 
when  the  door  opened,  and  Ulrika  entered,  bearing  a  large 
tray  laden  with  wine  and  other  refreshments.  As  she  set  it 
down,  she  gave  a  keen  covert  glance  round  the  room,  as  though 
rapidly  taking  note  of  the  appearance  and  faces  of  all  the 
young  men,  then,  with  a  sort  of  stiff  courtesy,  she  departed  as 
noiselessly  as  she  had  come — not,  however,  without  leaving 
a  disagreeable  impression  on  Errington's  mind. 

"Eather  a  stern  Phyllis,  that  waiting-maid  of  yours,"  he  re- 
marked, watching  his  host,  who  was  carefully  drawing  the  cork 
from  one  of  the  bottles  of  wine. 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  smiled.  "Oh,  no,  no!  not  stern  at  all,"  he 
answered,  sweetly.  "On  the  contrary,  most  affable  and  kind- 
hearted.  Her  only  fault  is  that  she  is  a  little  zealous — over- 
zealous  for  the  purity  of  the  faith;  and  she  has  suffered  much; 
but  she  is  an  excellent  woman,  really  excellent.  Sir  Philip, 
will  you  try  this  Lacrima  Christi?" 

"Lacrima  Christi!"  exclaimed  Duprez.  "You  do  not  surely 
get  that  in  Norway?" 


44  THELMA. 

"It  seems  strange,  certainly,"  replied  Mr.  Dyceworthy,  "but 
it  is  a  fact  that  the  Italian  or  Papist  wines  are  often  used  here. 
The  minister  whose  place  I  humbly  endeavor  to  fill  has  his 
cellar  stocked  with  them.  The  matter  is  easy  of  comprehen- 
sion when  once  explained.  The  benighted  inhabitants  of 
Italy,  a  land  lost  in  the  darkness  of  error,  still  persist  in  their 
fasts,  notwithstanding  the  evident  folly  of  their  ways — and 
the  Norwegian  sailors  provide  them  with  large  quantities  of 
fish  for  their  idolatrous  customs,  bringing  back  their  wines  in 
exchange." 

"A  very  good  idea,"  said  Lorimer,  sipping  the  Lacrima  with 
evident  approval — "Phil,  I  doubt  if  your  brands  on  board  the 
'Eulalie'  are  better  than  this." 

"Hardly  so  good,"  replied  Errington,  with  some  surprise,  as 
he  tasted  the  wine  and  noted  its  delicious  flavor.  "The  min- 
ister must  be  a  fine  connoisseur.  Are  there  many  other  fami- 
lies about  here,  Mr.  Dyceworthy,  who  know  how  to  choose 
their  wines  so  well?" 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  smiled  with  a  dubious  air. 

"There  is  one  other  household  that  in  the  matter  of  choice 
liquids  is  almost  profanely  particular,"  he  said.  "But  they 
are  people  who  are  ejected  with  good  reason  from  respectable 
society,  and — it  behooves  me  not  to  speak  of  their  names." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  said  Errington,  while  a  sudden  and  inexplica- 
ble thrill  of  indignation  fired  his  blood  and  sent  it  in  a  wave 
of  color  up  to  his  forehead.    "May  I  ask — " 

But  he  was  interrupted  by  Lorimer,  who,  nudging  him  slyly 
on  one  side,  muttered:  "Keep  cool,  old  fellow!  You  can't 
tell  whether  he's  talking  about  the  Guldmar  folk!  Be  quiet 
— you  don't  want  every  one  to  know  your  little  game." 

Thus  adjured,  Philip  swallowed  a  large  gulp  of  wine  to 
keep  down  his  feelings,  and  strove  to  appear  interested  in  the 
habits  and  caprices  of  bees,  a  subject  into  which  Mr.  Dyce- 
worthy had  just  inveigled  Duprez  and  Macfarlane. 

"Come  and  see  my  bees,"  said  the  Reverend  Charles  almost 
pathetically.  "They  are  emblems  of  ever-working  and  patient 
industry — storing  up  honey  for  others  to  partake  thereof." 

"They  wudna  store  it  up  at  a',  perhaps,  if  they  knew  that," 
observed  Sandy,  significantly. 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  positively  shone  all  over  with  beneficence. 

"They  would  store  it  up,  sir;  yes,  they  would,  even  if  they 


THELMA.  45 

knew!  It  is  God's  will  that  they  should  store  it  up;  it  is  God's 
will  that  they  should  show  an  example  of  unselfishness,  that 
they  should  tlit  from  flower  to  flower  sucking  therefrom  the 
sweetness  to  impart  into  strange  palates  unlike  their  own.  It 
is  a  beautiful  lesson;  it  teaches  us  who  are  the  ministers  of  the 
Lord  to  likewise  suck  the  sweetness  from  the  flowers  of  the 
living  gospel  and  impart  it  gladly  to  the  unbelievers  who  shall 
find  it  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  honey." 

And  he  shook  his  head  piously  several  times,  while  the 
pores  of  his  fat  visage  exuded  holy  oil.  Duprez  sniggered 
secretly.    Macfarlane  looked  preternaturally  solemn. 

"Come,"  repeated  the  reverend  gentleman,  with  an  inviting 
smile.  "Come  and  see  my  bees — also  my  strawberries!  I 
shall  be  delighted  to  send  a  basket  of  the  fruit  to  the  yacht,  if 
Sir  Philip  will  permit  me?" 

Errington  expressed  his  thanks  with  due  courtesy,  and  has- 
tened to  seize  the  opportunity  that  presented  itself  for  break- 
ing away  from  the  party. 

"If  you  will  excuse  us  for  twenty  minutes  or  so,  Mr.  Dyce- 
worthy,"  he  said,  "Lorimer  and  I  want  to  consult  a  fellow 
here  in  Bosekop  about  some  new  fishing-tackle.  We  shan't 
be  gone  long,  Mac,  you  and  Duprez  wait  for  us  here.  Don't 
commit  too  many  depredations  on  Mr.  Dyceworthy's  straw- 
berries." 

The  reason  for  their  departure  was  so  simply  and  naturally 
given  that  it  was  accepted  without  any  opposing  remarks. 
Duprez  was  delighted  to  have  the  chance  of  amusing  himself 
by  harassing  the  Reverend  Charles  with  open  professions  of 
utter  atheism,  and  Macfarlane,  who  loved  an  argument  more 
than  he  loved  whisky,  looked  forward  to  a  sharp  discussion 
presently  concerning  the  superiority  of  John  Knox,  morally 
and  physically,  over  Martin  Luther.  So  that  when  the  others 
went  their  way  their  departure  excited  no  suspicion  in  the 
minds  of  their  friends,  and  most  unsuspecting  of  all  was  the 
placid  Mr.  Dyceworthy,  who,  had  he  imagined  for  an  instant 
the  direction  in  which  they  were  going,  would  certainly  not 
have  discoursed  on  the  pleasures  of  bee-keeping  with  the  calm- 
ness and  placid  conviction  that  always  distinguished  him  when 
holding  forth  on  any  subject  that  was  attractive  to  his  mind. 
Leading  the  way  through  his  dewy,  rose-grown  garden,  and 
conversing  amicably  as  he  went,  he  escorted  Macfarlane  and 
Duprez  to  what  he  called  with  a  gentle  humor  his  "Bee- 


46  THELMA. 

Metropolis/'  while  Errington  and  Lorimer  returned  to  the 
shore  of  the  fjord,  where  they  had  left  their  boat  moored  to  a 
small,  clumsily  constructed  pier — and  entering  it,  they  set 
themselves  to  the  oars  and  pulled  away  together  with  the  long, 
steady,  sweeping  stroke  rendered  famous  by  the  exploits  of 
the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  men.  After  some  twenty  minutes' 
rowing,  Lorimer  looked  up  and  spoke  as  he  drew  his  blade 
swiftly  through  the  bright  green  water. 

"I  feel  as  though  I  were  aiding  and  abetting  you  in  some 
crime,  Phil.  You  know,  my  first  impression  of  this  business 
remains  the  same.    You  had  much  better  leave  it  alone." 

"Why?"  asked  Errington,  coolly. 

"Well,  'pon  my  life  I  don't  know  why.  Except  that,  from 
long  experience,  I  have  proved  that  it's  always  dangerous  and 
troublesome  to  run  after  a  woman.  Leave  her  to  run  after 
you — she'll  do  it  fast  enough." 

"Wait  till  you  see  her.  Besides  I'm  not  running  after  any 
woman,"  averred  Philip  with  some  heat. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon — I  forgot.  She's  not  a  woman; 
she's  a  sun-angel!  You  are  rowing,  not  running,  after  a  sun- 
angel.  Is  that  correct?  I  say,  don't  drive  through  the  water 
like  that;  you'll  pull  the  boat  round." 

Errington  slackened  his  speed  and  laughed.  "It's  only  curi- 
osity," he  said,  lifting  his  hat,  and  pushing  back  the  cluster- 
ing dark-brown  curls  from  his  brow.  "I  bet  you  that  sleek 
Dyceworthy  fellow  meant  the  old  bonde  and  his  daughter, 
when  he  spoke  of  persons  who  were  'ejected'  from  the  social 
circles  of  Bosekop.  Fancy  Bosekop  society  presuming  to  be 
particular! — what  an  absurd  idea!" 

"My  dear  fellow,  don't  pretend  to  be  so  deplorably  ignorant! 
Surely  you  know  that  a  trumpery  village  or  a  twopenny  town 
is  much  more  choice  and  exclusive  in  its  'sets'  than  a  great 
city?  I  wouldn't  live  in  a  small  place  for  the  world.  Every 
inhabitant  would  know  the  cut  of  my  clothes  by  heart,  and 
the  number  of  buttons  on  my  waistcoat.  The  grocer  would 
copy  the  pattern  of  my  trousers — the  butcher  would  carry  a 
cane  like  mine.  It  would  be  simply  insufferable.  To  change 
the  subject,  may  I  ask  you  if  you  know  which  way  you  are 
going,  for  it  seems  to  me  we're  bound  straight  for  a  smash  on 
that  uncomfortable-looking  rock,  where  there  is  certainly  no 
landing-place." 

Errington  stopped  pulling,  and,  standing  up  in  the  boat. 


THELMA.  47 

began  to  examine  the  surroundings  with  keen  interest.  They 
were  close  to  the  great  crag  "shaped  like  a  giant's  helmet,"  as 
Valdemar  Svensen  had  said.  It  rose  sheer  out  of  the  water, 
and  its  sides  were  almost  perpendicular.  Some  beautiful  star- 
shaped  sea  anemones  clung  to  it  in  a  vari-colored  cluster  on 
one  projection,  and  the  running  ripple  of  the  small  waves 
broke  on  its  jagged  corners  with  a  musical  splash  and  sparkle 
of  white  foam.  Below  them,  in  the  emerald  mirror  of  the 
fjord,  it  was  so  clear  that  they  could  see  the  fine  white  sand 
lying  at  the  bottom,  sprinkled  thick  with  shells  and  lithe 
moving  creatures  of  all  shapes,  while  every  now  and  then  there 
streamed  past  them  brilliantly  tinted  specimens  of  the  me- 
dusae, with  their  long  feelers  or  tendrils,  looking  like  torn 
skeins  of  crimson  and  azure  floss  silk. 

The  place  was  very  silent;  only  the  sea-gulls  circled  round 
and  round  the  summit  of  the  great  rock,  some  of  them  occa- 
sionally swooping  down  on  the  unwary  fishes  their  keen  eyes 
perceived  in  the  waters  beneath,  then  up  again  they  soared, 
swaying  their  graceful  wings  and  uttering  at  intervals  that 
peculiar  wild  cry  that  in  solitary  haunts  sounds  so  intensely 
mournful.  Errington  gazed  about  him  in  doubt  for  some 
minutes,  then  suddenly  his  face  brightened.  He  sat  down 
again  in  the  boat  and  resumed  his  oar. 

"Eow  quietly,  George,"  he  said,  in  a  subdued  tone.  "Quietly 
— round  to  the  left." 

The  oars  dipped  noiselessly,  and  the  boat  shot  forward — 
then  swerved  sharply  round  in  the  direction  indicated — and 
there  before  them  lay  a  small  sandy  creek,  white  and  shining 
as  though  sprinkled  with  powdered  silver.  From  this,  a  small 
but  strongly  built  wooden  pier  ran  out  into  the  sea.  It  was 
carved  all  over  with  fantastic  figures,  and  in  it,  at  equal  dis- 
tances, were  fastened  iron  rings,  such  as  are  used  for  the  safe 
mooring  of  boats.  One  boat  was  there  already,  and  Errington 
recognized  it  with  delight.  It  was  that  in  which  he  had  seen 
the  mysterious  maiden  disappear.  High  and  dry  on  the  sand, 
and  out  of  reach  of  the  tides,  was  a  neat  sailing  vessel;  its 
name  was  painted  round  the  stern — "The  Valkyrie." 

As  the  two  friends  ran  their  boat  on  shore,  and  fastened  it 
to  the  farthest  ring  of  the  convenient  pier,  they  caught  the 
distant  sound  of  the  plaintive  "coo-cooing"  of  turtle  doves. 

"You've  done  it  this  time,  old  boy,"  said  Lorimer,  speaking 
in  a  whisper,  though  he  knew  not  why.     "This  is  the  old 


48  THELMA. 

bonde's  own  private  landing-place  evidently,  and  here's  a 
footpath  leading  somewhere.    Shall  we  follow  it?" 

Philip  emphatically  assented,  and,  treading  softly,  like  the 
trespassers  they  felt  themselves  to  be,  they  climbed  the  as- 
cending narrow  way  that  guided  them  up  from  the  sea-shore, 
round  through  a  close  thicket  of  pines,  where  their  footsteps 
fell  noiselessly  on  a  thick  carpet  of  velvety  green  moss,  dotted 
prettily  here  and  there  with  the  red  gleam  of  ripening  wild 
strawberries.  Everything  was  intensely  still,  and  as  yet  there 
seemed  no  sign  of  human  habitation.  Suddenly  a  low  whir- 
ring sound  broke  upon  their  ears,  and  Errington,  who  was  a 
little  in  advance  of  his  companion,  paused  abruptly  with  a 
smothered  exclamation,  and  drew  back  on  tiptoe,  catching 
Lorimer  by  the  arm. 

"By  Jove!"  he  whispered,  excitedly,  "we've  come  right  up 
to  the  very  windows  of  the  house.    Look!" 

Lorimer  obeyed,  and  for  once  the  light  Jest  died  upon  his 
lips.    Surprise  and  admiration  held  him  absolutely  silent. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Elle  filait  et  souriait — et  je  crois  qu'elle  enveloppa  mon  coeur 
avec  son  fil. — Heine. 

Before  them,  close  enough  for  their  outstretched  hands  to 
have  touched  it,  was  what  appeared  to  be  a  framed  picture, 
exquisitely  painted — a  picture  perfect  in  outline,  matchless  in 
color,  faultless  in  detail — but  which  was  in  reality  nothing  but 
a  large  latticed  window  thrown  wide  open  to  admit  the  air. 
They  could  now  see  distinctly  through  the  shadows  cast  by 
the  stately  pines  a  long,  low,  rambling  house,  built  roughly, 
but  strongly,  of  wooden  rafters,  all  overgrown  with  green  and 
blossoming  creepers;  but  they  scarcely  glanced  at  the  actual 
building,  so  strongly  was  their  attention  riveted  on  the  one 
window  before  them.  It  was  surrounded  by  an  unusually 
broad  frame-work,  curiously  and  elaborately  carved,  and  black 
as  polished  ebony.  Flowers  grew  all  about  it — sweet  pease, 
mignonette,  and  large  purple  pansies — while  red  and  white 
climbing  roses  rioted  in  untrained  profusion  over  its  wide  sill. 
Above  it  was  a  quaintly  built  dove-cote,  where  some  of  the 


THELMA.  49 

strutting  fan-tailed  inhabitants  were  perched,  swelling  out 
their  snowy  breasts  and  discoursing  of  their  domestic  trials  in 
notes  of  dulcet  melancholy;  while  lower  down,  three  or  four 
ring-doves  nestled  on  the  roof  in  a  patch  of  sunlight,  spread- 
ing up  their  pinions  like  miniature  sails,  to  catch  the  warmth 
and  luster. 

Within  the  deep,  shadowy  embrasure,  like  a  jewel  placed 
on  dark  velvet,  was  seated  a  girl  spinning — no  other  than  the 
mysterious  maiden  of  the  shell  cavern.  She  was  attired  in  a 
plain,  straight  gown,  of  some  soft,  white  woolen  stuff,  cut 
squarely  at  the  throat;  her  round,  graceful  arms  were  partially 
bare,  and  as  the  wheel  turned  swiftly,  and  her  slender  hands 
busied  themselves  with  the  flax,  she  smiled,  as  though  some 
pleasing  thought  had  touched  her  mind.  Her  smile  had  the 
effect  of  sudden  sunshine  in  the  dark  room  where  she  sat  and 
spun — it  was  radiant  and  mirthful  as  the  smile  of  a  happy 
child.  Yet  her  dark-blue  eyes  remained  pensive  and  earnest, 
and  the  smile  soon  faded,  leaving  her  fair  face  absorbed  and 
almost  dreamy.  The  whirr-whirring  of  the  wheel  grew  less 
and  less  rapid — it  slackened — it  stopped  altogether — and,  as 
though  startled  by  some  unexpected  sound,  the  girl  paused 
and  listened,  pushing  away  the  clustering  masses  of  her  rich 
hair  from  her  brow.  Then  rising  slowly  from  her  seat,  she 
advanced  to  the  window,  put  aside  the  roses  with  one  hand, 
and  looked  out — thus  forming  another  picture  as  beautiful,  if 
not  more  beautiful,  than  the  first. 

Lorimer  drew  his  breath  hard.  ''1  say,  old  fellow,"  he 
whispered;  but  Errington  pressed  his  arm  with  vise-like  firm- 
ness, as  a  warning  to  him  to  be  silent,  while  they  both  stepped 
further  back  into  the  dusky  gloom  of  the  pine-boughs. 

The  girl,  meanwhile,  stood  motionless,  in  a  half-expectant 
attitude,  and,  seeing  her  there,  some  of  the  doves  on  the  roof 
flew  down  and  strutted  on  the  ground  before  her,  coo-cooing 
proudly,  as  though  desirous  of  attracting  her  attention.  One 
of  them  boldly  perched  on  the  window-sill;  she  glanced  at  the 
bird  musingly,  and  softly  stroked  its  opaline  wings  and  shining 
head  without  terrifying  it.  It  seemed  delighted  to  be  noticed, 
and  almost  lay  down  under  her  hand  in  order  to  be  more  con- 
veniently caressed.  Still  gentl}^  smoothing  its  feathers,  she 
leaned  further  out  among  the  clambering  wealth  of  blossoms, 
and  called  in  a  low,  penetrating  tone:  "Father!  father!  is  that 
you?" 


50  THBLMA. 

There  was  no  answer;  and,  after  waiting  a  minute  or  two, 
she  moved  and  resumed  her  former  seat — the  stray  doves  flew 
back  to  their  customary  promenade  on  the  roof,  and  the 
drowsy  whirr-whirr  of  the  sjDinning-wheel  murmured  again  its 
monotonous  hum  upon  the  air. 

"Come  on,  Phil,"  whispered  Lorimer,  determined  not  to  be 
checked  this  time;  "I  feel  perfectly  wretched!  It's  mean  of 
us  to  be  skulking  about  here,  as  if  we  were  a  couple  of  low 
thieves  waiting  to  trap  some  of  those  birds  for  a  pigeon-pie. 
Come  away — ^you've  seen  her;  that's  enough." 

Errington  did  not  move.  Holding  back  a  branch  of  pine, 
he  watched  the  movements  of  the  girl  at  her  wheel  with  ab- 
sorbed fascination. 

Suddenly  her  sweet  lips  parted,  and  she  sung  a  weird,  wild 
melody,  that  seemed,  like  a  running  torrent,  to  have  fallen 
from  the  crests  of  the  mountains,  bringing  with  it  echoes  from 
the  furthest  summits,  mingled  with  soft  wailings  of  a  mourn- 
ful wind. 

Her  voice  was  pure  as  the  ring  of  fine  crystal — deep,  liquid 
and  tender,  with  a  restrained  passion  in  it  that  stirred  Erring- 
ton's  heart  and  filled  it  with  a  strange  unrest  and  feverish 
yearning — emotions  which  were  new  to  him,  and  which,  while 
he  realized  their  existence,  moved  him  to  a  sort  of  ashamed 
impatience.  He  would  have  willingly  left  his  post  of  observa- 
tion now,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  shaking  off  his  unwonted 
sensations;  and  he  took  a  step  or  two  backward  for  that  pur- 
pose, when  Lorimer,  in  his  turn,  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  let  us  hear  the  song  through!"  he  said 
in  subdued  tones.    "What  a  voice!    A  positive  golden  flute!" 

His  rapt  face  betokened  his  enjoyment,  and  Errington, 
nothing  loath,  still  lingered,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  white-robed 
slim  figure  framed  in  the  dark  old  rose-wreathed  window — the 
figure  that  swayed  softly  with  the  motion  of  the  wheel  and  the 
rhythm  of  the  song — while  flickering  sunbeams  sparkled  now 
and  then  on  the  maiden's  dusky  gold  hair,  or  touched  up  a 
warmer  tint  on  her  tenderly  flushed  cheeks  and  fair  neck,  more 
snowy  than  the  gown  she  wore.  Music  poured  from  her  lips  as 
from  the  throat  of  a  nightingale.  The  words  she  sung 
were  Norwegian,  and  her  listeners  understood  nothing  of 
them;  but  the  melody — the  pathetic,  appealing  melody — soul- 
moving  as  all  true  melody  must  be,  touched  the  very  core  of 


THELMA.  51 

their  hearts  and  entangled  them  in  a  web  of  delicious  reveries. 

"Talk  of  Ary  Sclieii'er's  Gretchen!"  murmured  Lorimer, 
with  a  sigh.  "What  a  miserable,  pasty,  milk-and- watery  young 
person  she  is  beside  that  magniiicent,  unconscious  beauty!  1 
give  in,  Phil!  I  admit  your  taste.  I'm  willing  to  swear  that 
she's  a  sun-angel  if  you  like.  Her  voice  has  convinced  me  of 
that." 

At  that  instant  the  song  ceased.  Errington  turned  and  re- 
garded him  steadfastly. 

"Are  you  hit,  George?"  he  said  softly,  with  a  forced  smile. 

Lorimer's  face  flushed,  but  he  met  his  friend's  eyes  frankly. 

"I  am  no  poacher,  old  fellow,"  he  answered  in  the  same 
quiet  accents;  "I  think  you  know  that.  If  that  girl's  mind  is 
as  lovely  as  her  face,  I  say  go  in  and  win!" 

Sir  Philip  smiled.  His  brow  cleared  and  an  expression  of 
relief  settled  there.  The  look  of  gladness  was  unconscious, 
but  Lorimer  saw  it  at  once,  and  noted  it. 

"Nonsense!"  he  said,  in  a  mirthful  under-tone.  "How  can 
I  go  in  and  win,  as  you  say?  What  am  I  to  do?  I  can't  go  up 
to  that  window  and  speak  to  her — she  might  take  me  for  a 
thief." 

"You  look  like  a  thief,"  replied  Lorimer,  surveying  his 
friend's  athletic  figure,  clad  in  its  loose  but  well-cut  yachting 
suit  of  white  flannel,  ornamented  with  silver  anchor-buttons, 
and  taking  a  comprehensive  glance  from  the  easy  pose  of  the 
fine  head  and  handsome  face,  down  to  the  trim  foot  with  the 
high  and  well-arched  instep.  "Very  much  like  a  thief!  I 
wonder  I  haven't  noticed  it  before.  Any  London  policeman 
would  arrest  you  on  the  mere  fact  of  your  suspicious  appear- 
ance." 

Errington  laughed.  "Well,  my  boy,  whatever  my  looks  may 
testify,  I  am  at  this  moment  an  undoubted  trespasser  on 
private  property — and  so  are  you  for  that  matter.  What  shall 
we  do?" 

"Find  the  front  door  and  ring  the  bell,"  suggested  George, 
promptly.  "Say  we  are  beniglited  travelers  and  have  lost  our 
way.  The  bonde  can  but  flay  us.  The  operation,  I  believe,  is 
painful,  but  it  can  not  last  long." 

"George,  you  are  incorrigible.  Suppose  we  go  back  and  try 
the  other  side  of  this  pine  wood?  That  might  lead  us  to  the 
front  of  the  house." 

"I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  walk  coolly  past  that  win- 


52  THELMA, 

dow/'  said  Lorimer.  "If  any  observation  is  made  by  the  fair 
Marguerite  yonder,  we  can  boldly  say  we  have  come  to  see 
the  bonde.'' 

Unconsciously  they  had  both  raised  their  voices  a  little  dur- 
ing the  latter  part  of  their  hasty  dialogue,  and  at  the  instant 
when  Lorimer  uttered  the  last  words,  a  heavy  hand  was  laid 
on  each  of  their  shoulders — a  hand  that  turned  them  round 
forcibly  away  from  the  window  they  had  been  gazing  at,  and 
a  deep,  resonant  voice  addressed  them. 

"The  bonde?  Truly,  young  men,  you  need  seek  no  further 
—I  am  Olaf  Guldmar/' 

Had  he  said,  "I  am  an  emperor,"  he  could  not  have  spoken 
with  more  pride. 

Errington  and  his  friend  were  for  a  moment  speechless — 
partly  from  displeasure  at  the  summary  manner  in  which  they 
had  been  seized  and  twisted  round  like  young  uprooted  sap- 
lings, and  partly  from  surprise  and  involuntary  admiration  for 
the  personage  who  had  treated  them  with  such  scant  courtesy. 
They  saw  before  them  a  man  somewhat  above  the  middle 
height,  who  might  have  served  an  aspiring  sculptor  as  a  per- 
fect model  for  a  chieftain  of  old  Gaul,  or  a  dauntless  Viking. 
His  frame  was  firmly  and  powerfully  built,  and  seemed  to  be 
exceptionally  strong  and  muscular,  yet  an  air  of  almost  courtly 
grace  pervaded  his  movements,  making  each  attitude  he  as- 
sumed more  or  less  picturesque.  He  was  broad-shouldered 
and  deep-chested;  his  face  was  full  and  healthily  colored, 
while  his  head  was  truly  magnificent.  Well-poised  and 
shapely,  it  indicated  power,  will  and  wisdom,  and  was  further- 
more adorned  by  a  rough,  thick  mass  of  snow-white  hair  that 
shone  in  the  sunlight  like  spun  silver.  His  beard  was  short 
and  curly,  trimmed  after  the  fashion  of  the  warriors  of  old 
Rome,  and,  from  under  his  fierce  fuzzy,  gray  eyebrows  a  pair 
of  sentinel  eyes,  that  were  keen,  clear  and  bold  as  an  eagle's, 
looked  out  with  a  watchful  steadiness — steadiness,  that,  like 
the  sharp  edge  of  a  diamond,  seemed  warranted  to  cut  through 
the  brittle  glass  of  a  lie.  Judging  by  his  outward  appearance, 
his  age  might  have  been  guessed  at  as  between  fifty-eight  and 
sixty,  but  he  was,  in  truth,  seventy-two,  and  more  strong, 
active  and  daring  than  many  another  man  whose  years  are  not 
counted  past  the  thirties.  He  was  curiously  attired,  after 
something  of  the  fashion  of  the  Highlander,  and  something 
yet  more  of  the  ancient  Greek,  in  a  tunic,  vest  and  loose 


THELMA.  53 

jacket  all  made  of  reindeer  skin,  thickly  embroidered  with 
curious  designs  worked  in  coarse  thread  and  colored  beads; 
while  thrown  carelessly  over  his  shoulders  and  knotted  at  his 
waist  was  a  broad  scarf  of  white  woolen  stuff  or  wadmel,  very 
soft  looking  and  warm.  In  his  belt  he  carried  a  formidable 
hunting-knife,  and  as  he  faced  the  two  intruders  on  his  ground 
he  rested  one  hand  lightly  yet  suggestively  on  a  weighty  staff 
of  pine,  which  was  notched  all  over  with  quaint  letters  and 
figures,  and  terminated  in  a  cui-ved  handle  at  the  top.  Ho 
waited  for  the  young  men  to  speak,  and  finding  they  remained 
silent  he  glanced  at  them  half  angrily  and  again  repeated  his 
words: 

"I  am  the  bonde — Olaf  Guldmar.  Speak  your  business  and 
take  your  departure;    my  time  is  brief." 

Lorimer  looked  up  with  his  usual  nonchalance — a  faint 
smile  playing  about  his  lips.  He  saw  at  once  that  the  old 
farmer  was  not  a  man  to  be  trifled  with,  and  he  raised  his  cap 
with  a  ready  grace  as  he  spoke. 

"Fact  is,"  he  said,  frankly,  "we've  no  business  here  at  all — 
not  the  least  in  the  world.  We  are  perfectly  aware  of  it.  We 
are  trespassers,  and  we  know  it.  Pray  don't  be  hard  on  us, 
Mr. — Mr.  Guldmar." 

The  bonde  glanced  him  over  with  a  quick  lightening  of  the 
eyes,  and  the  suspicion  of  a  smile  in  the  depths  of  his  curly 
beard.    He  turned  to  Errington. 

"Is  this  true?  You  came  here  on  purpose,  knowing  the 
ground  was  private  property?" 

Errington,  in  his  turn,  lifted  his  cap  from  his  clustering 
brown  curls  with  that  serene  and  stately  court  manner  which 
was  to  him  second  nature. 

"We  did,"  he  confessed,  quietly  following  Lorimer's  cue, 
and  seeing  also  that  it  was  best  to  be  straightforward.  "We 
heard  you  spoken  of  in  Bosekop,  and  we  came  to  see  if  you 
would  permit  us  the  honor  of  your  acquaintance." 

The  old  man  struck  his  pine  staff  violently  into  the  ground 
and  his  face  flushed  wrathfully. 

"Bosekop!"  he  exclaimed.  "Talk  to  me  of  a  wasp's  nest! 
Bosekop!  You  shall  hear  of  me  there  enough  to  satisfy  your 
appetite  for  news.  Bosekop!  In  the  days  when  my  race 
ruled  the  land  such  people  as  they  that  dwell  there  would 
have  been  put  to  sharpen  my  sword  on  the  grindstone,  or  to 


54  THELMA. 

wait,  hungry  and  humble,  for  the  refuse  of  the  food  left  from 
my  table." 

He  spoke  with  extraordinary  heat  and  passion — it  was  evi- 
dently necessary  to  soothe  him.  Lorimer  took  a  covert  glance 
backward  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  lattice  window,  and  saw 
that  the  white  figure  at  the  spinning-wheel  had  disappeared. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Guldmar,"  he  then  said,  with  polite  fervor, 
"1  assure  you  I  think  the  Bosekop  folk  by  no  means  deserve 
to  sharpen  your  sword  on  the  grindstone,  or  to  enjoy  the  re- 
mains of  your  dinner!  Myself,  I  despise  them.  My  friend 
here,  Sir  Philip  Errington,  despises  them — don't  you,  Phil?" 

Errington  nodded  demurely. 

"What  my  friend  said  just  now  is  perfectly  true,"  continued 
Lorimer.  "We  desire  the  honor  of  your  acquaintance — it  will 
charm  and  delight  us  above  all  things." 

And  his  face  beamed  with  a  candid,  winning,  boyish  smile, 
which  was  very  captivating  in  its  own  way,  and  which  cer- 
tainly had  its  effect  on  the  old  bonde,  for  his  tone  softened, 
though  he  said,  gravely: 

"My  acquaintance,  young  men,  is  never  sought  by  any. 
Those  who  are  wise  keep  away  from  me.  I  love  not  strangers; 
it  is  best  you  should  know  it.  I  freely  pardon  your  trespass; 
take  your  leave,  and  go  in  peace." 

The  two  friends  exchanged  disconsolate  looks.  There  really 
seemed  nothing  for  it  but  to  obey  this  unpleasing  command. 
Errington  made  one  more  venture. 

"May  I  hope,  Mr.  Guldmar,"  he  said,  with  persuasive  cour- 
tesy, "that  you  will  break  through  your  apparent  rule  of 
seclusion  for  once  and  visit  me  on  board  my  yacht?  You  have 
no  doubt  seen  her — the  'Eulalie' — she  lies  at  anchor  in  the 
fjord." 

The  bonde  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  "I  have  seen 
her.  A  fair  toy  vessel  to  amuse  an  idle  young  man's  leisure. 
You  are  he  that  in  that  fool's  hole  of  a  Bosekop  is  known  as 
the  'rich  Englishman' — an  idle  trifler  with  time — an  aimless 
wanderer  from  those  dull  shores  where  they  eat  gold  till  they 
die  of  surfeit.  I  have  heard  of  you — a  mushroom  knight,  a 
fungus  of  nobility — an  ephemeral  growth  on  a  grand  decaying 
old  tree,  whose  roots  lie  buried  in  the  annals  of  a  far-forgotten 
past." 

The  rich,  deep  voice  of  the  old  man  quivered  as  he  spoke, 
and  a  shadow  of  melancholy  flitted  across  his  brow.    Erring- 


THELMA.  55 

ton  listened  with  unruffled  patience.  He  heard  himself,  his 
pleasures,  his  wealth,  his  rank  thus  made  light  of  without  the 
least  offense.  He  met  the  steady  gaze  of  the  bonde  quietly, 
and  slightly  bent  his  head  as  though  in  deference  to  his 
remarks. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  he  said,  simply.  "We  modern  men 
are  but  pygmies  compared  with  the  giants  of  old  time.  Royal 
blood  itself  is  tainted  nowadays.  But,  for  myself,  I  attach  no 
importance  to  the  mere  appurtenances  of  life — the  baggage 
that  accompanies  one  on  that  brief  journey.  Life  itself  is 
quite  enough  for  me." 

"And  for  me,  too,"  averred  Lorimer,  delighted  that  his 
friend  had  taken  the  old  farmer's  scornful  observations  so 
good-naturedly.  "But  do  you  know,  Mr.  Guldmar,  you  are 
making  life  unpleasant  for  us  just  now  by  turning  us  out? 
The  conversation  is  becoming  interesting.  Why  not  prolong 
it?  We  have  no  friends  in  Bosekop,  and  we  are  to  anchor 
here  for  some  days.  Surely  you  will  allow  us  to  come  and 
see  you  again?" 

Olaf  Guldmar  was  silent.  He  advanced  a  step  nearer,  and 
studied  them  both  with  such  earnest  and  searching  scrutiny 
that  as  they  remembered  the  real  attraction  that  had  drawn 
them  thither,  the  conscious  blood  mounted  to  their  faces, 
flushing  Errington's  forehead  to  the  very  roots  of  his  curly 
brown  hair.  Still  the  old  man  gazed  as  though  he  sought  to 
read  their  very  souls.  He  muttered  something  to  himself  in 
Norwegian,  and  finally,  to  their  utter  astonishment,  he  drew 
his  hunting-knife  from  its  sheath  and  with  a  rapid,  wild  ges- 
ture threw  it  on  the  ground  and  placed  his  foot  upon  it. 

"Be  it  so!"  he  said,  briefly.  "I  cover  the  blade!  You  are 
men;  like  men,  you  speak  truth.  As  such  I  receive  you.  Had 
you  told  me  a  lie  concerning  your  coming  here — had  you 
made  pretense  of  having  lost  your  way,  or  other  such  shifty 
evasion,  your  path  would  never  have  again  crossed  mine.  As 
it  is — welcome." 

And  he  held  out  his  hand  with  a  sort  of  royal  dignity,  still 
resting  one  foot  on  the  fallen  weapon.  The  young  men, 
struck  by  his  action  and  gratified  by  his  change  of  manner 
and  the  genial  expression  that  now  softened  his  rugged  feat- 
ures, were  quick  to  respond  to  his  friendly  greeting,  and  the 
bonde,  picking  up  and  resheathing  his  hunting-knife  as  if  he 
had  done  nothing  at  all  out  of  the  common,  motioned  them 


56  THELMA. 

toward  the  very  window  on  which  their  eyes  had  been  so  long 
and  so  ardently  fixed. 

"Come!"  he  said.  "You  must  drain  a  cup  of  wine  with  me 
before  you  leave.  Your  unguided  footsteps  led  you  by  the 
wrong  path — I  saw  your  boat  moored  to  my  pier,  and  won- 
dered who  had  been  venturesome  enough  to  trample  through 
my  woodland.  I  might  have  guessed  that  only  a  couple  of  idle 
boys  like  yourselves,  knowing  no  better,  would  have  pushed 
their  way  to  a  spot  that  all  worthy  dwellers  in  Bosekop,  and 
all  true  followers  of  the  Lutheran  devilry,  avoid  as  though  the 
plague  were  settled  in  it." 

And  the  old  man  laughed,  a  splendid,  mellow  laugh,  with 
the  ring  of  true  Jollity  in  it — a  laugh  that  was  infectious,  for 
Errington  and  Lorimer  Joined  in  it  heartily  without  precisely 
knowing  why.  Lorimer,  however,  thought  it  seemly  to  protest 
against  the  appellation  "idle  boys." 

"What  do  you  take  us  for,  sir?"  he  said,  with  lazy  good 
nature.  "I  carry  upon  my  shoulders  the  sorrowful  burden  of 
twenty-six  years — Philip,  there,  is  painfully  conscious  of  being 
thirty — may  we  not  therefore  dispute  the  word  'boys'  as  being 
derogatory  to  our  dignity?  You  called  us  'men'  awhile  ago 
— remember  that." 

Olaf  Guldmar  laughed  again.  His  suspicious  gravity  had 
entirely  disappeared,  leaving  liis  face  a  beaming  mirror  of 
beneficence  and  good  humor. 

"So  you  are  men,"  he  said,  cheerily,  "men  in  the  bud,  like 
leaves  on  a  tree.  But  you  seem  boys  to  a  tough  old  stump 
of  humanity  such  as  I  am.  That  is  my  way — my  child 
Thelma,  though  they  tell  me  she  is  a  woman  grown,  is  always 
a  babe  to  me.  'Tis  one  of  the  many  privileges  of  the  old  to 
see  the  world  about  them  always  young  and  full  of  children." 

And  he  led  the  way  past  the  wide-open  lattice,  where  they 
could  dimly  perceive  the  spinning-wheel  standing  alone,  as 
though  thinking  deeply  of  the  fair  hands  that  had  lately  left 
it  idle,  and  so  round  to  the  actual  front  of  the  house,  which 
was  exceedingly  picturesque,  and  literally  overgrown  with 
roses  from  ground  to  roof.  The  entrance  door  stood  open; 
it  was  surrounded  by  a  wide,  deep  porch  richly  carved  and 
grotesquely  ornamented,  having  two  comfortable  seats  within 
it,  one  on  each  side.  Through  this  they  went,  involuntarily 
brushing  down  as  they  passed  a  shower  of  pink  and  white 
rose-leaves,  and  stepped  into  a  wide  passage,  where  upon  walls 


THELMA.  57 

of  dark  polished  pine  hung  a  large  collection  of  curiously 
shaped  weapons,  all  of  primitive  manufacture,  such  as  stone 
darts  and  rough  axes,  together  with  bows  and  arrows  and  two- 
handled  swords,  huge  as  the  fabled  weapon  of  William  Wal- 
lace. 

Opening  a  door  to  the  right,  the  bonde  stood  courteously 
aside  and  bade  them  enter,  and  they  found  themselves  in  the 
very  apartment  where  they  had  seen  the  maiden  spinning. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down,"  said  their  host,  hospitably.  "We 
will  have  wine  directly,  and  Thelma  shall  come  hither. 
Thelma!  Thelma!  Where  is  the  child?  She  wanders  hither 
and  thither  like  a  mountain  sprite.  Wait  here,  my  lads,  I  shall 
return  directly." 

And  he  strode  away,  leaving  Errington  and  Lorimer  de- 
lighted at  the  success  of  their  plans,  yet  somewhat  abashed, 
too.  There  was  a  peace  and  gentle  simplicity  about  the  little 
room  in  which  they  were  that  touched  the  chivalrous  senti- 
ment in  their  natures  and  kept  them  silent.  On  one  side  of  it 
half  a  dozen  broad  shelves  supported  a  goodly  row  of  well- 
bound  volumes,  among  which  the  time-honored  golden  names 
of  Shakespeare  and  Scott  glittered  invitingly,  together  with 
such  works  as  Chapman's  "Homer,"  Byron's  "Childe  Harold," 
the  "Poems  of  John  Keats,"  Gibbon's  "Eome,"  and  Plutarch; 
while  mingled  with  these  were  the  devotional  works  in  French 
of  Alphonse  de  Liguori,  the  "Imitation,"  also  in  French — and 
a  number  of  books  with  titles  in  Norwegian — altogether  a 
heterogeneous  collection  of  literature,  yet  not  without  interest 
as  displaying  taste  and  culture  on  the  part  of  those  to  whom 
it  belonged.  Errington,  himself  learned  in  books,  was  sur- 
prised to  see  so  many  standard  works  in  the  library  of  one 
who  professed  to  be  nothing  but  a  Norwegian  farmer,  and  his 
respect  for  the  sturdy  old  bonde  increased.  There  were  no 
j)ictures  in  the  room — the  wide  lattice  window  on  one  hand, 
looking  out  on  the  roses  and  the  pine  wood,  and  the  other 
smaller  one,  close  to  the  entrance  door,  from  which  the  fjord 
was  distinctly  visible,  were  sufficient  pictures  in  themselves 
to  need  no  others.  The  furniture  was  roughly  made  of  pine 
and  seemed  to  have  been  carved  by  hand — some  of  the  chairs 
were  very  quaint  and  pretty,  and  would  have  sold  in  a  bric-a- 
brac  shop  for  more  than  a  sovereign  apiece.  On  the  wide 
mantel-shelf  was  a  quantity  of  curious  old  china  that  seemed 
to  have  been  picked  up  from  all  parts  of  the  world — most  of  it 


58  THELMA. 

was  undoubtedly  valuable.  In  one  dark  corner  stood  an  an- 
cient harp,  then  there  was  the  spinning-wheel — itself  a  curi- 
osity fit  for  a  museum — testifying  dumbly  of  the  mistress  of 
all  these  surroundings,  and  on  the  floor  there  was  something 
else — something  that  both  the  young  men  were  strongly  in- 
clined to  take  possession  of.  It  was  only  a  bunch  of  tiny 
meadow  daisies,  fastened  together  with  a  bit  of  blue  silk.  It 
had  fallen — they  guessed  by  whom  it  had  been  worn — but 
neither  made  any  remark,  and  both,  by  some  strange  instinct, 
avoiding  looking  at  it,  as  though  the  innocent  little  blossoms 
carried  within  them  some  terrible  temptation.  They  were 
conscious  of  a  certain  embarrassment,  and  making  an  effort 
to  break  through  it,  Lorimer  remarked,  softly: 

"By  Jove,  Phil!  if  this  old  Guldmar  really  knew  what  you 
are  up  to  I  believe  he  would  bundle  you  out  of  this  place  like 
a  tramp.  Didn't  you  feel  a  sneak  when  he  said  we  had  told  the 
truth  like  men?" 

Philip  smiled  dreamily.  He  was  seated  in  one  of  the 
quaintly  carved  chairs,  half  absorbed  in  what  was  evidently  a 
pleasing  reverie. 

"No,  not  exactly,"  he  replied.  "Because  we  did  tell  him 
the  truth;  we  did  want  to  know  him,  and  he's  worth  knowing, 
too.    He  is  a  magnificent-looking  fellow;  don't  you  think  so?" 

"Kather!"  assented  Lorimer,  with  emphasis.  "I  wish  there 
were  any  hope  of  my  becoming  such  a  fine  old  buffer  in  my 
decadence — it  would  be  worth  living  for,  if  only  to  look  at  my- 
self in  the  glass  now  and  then.  He  rather  startled  me  when 
he  threw  down  that  knife,  though.  I  suppose  it  is  some  old 
Norwegian  custom?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  Errington  answered,  and  then  was  silent, 
for  at  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  old  farmer  re- 
turned, followed  by  a  girl  bearing  a  tray  glittering  with  flasks 
of  Italian  wine,  and  long  graceful  glasses  shaped  like  round 
goblets,  set  on  particularly  slender  stems.  The  sight  of  the 
girl  disappointed  the  eager  visitors,  for  though  she  was  un- 
deniably pretty,  she  was  not  Thelma.  She  was  short  and 
plump,  with  rebellious  nut-brown  locks,  that  rippled  about 
her  face  and  from  under  her  close  white  cap  with  persistent 
untidiness.  Her  cheeks  were  as  round  and  red  as  love-apples, 
and  she  had  dancing  blue  eyes  that  appeared  forever  engaged 
in  good-natured  efforts  to  outsparkle  each  other.  She  wore 
a  spotless  apron,  lavishly    trimmed    with    coquettish  little 


THELMA.  59 

starched  frills — her  hands  were,  unfortunately,  rather  large 
and  coarse — but  her  smile,  as  she  set  down  the  tray  and 
courtesied  respectfully  to  the  young  men,  was  charming,  dis- 
closing,  as  it  did,  tiny  teeth  as  even  and  white  as  a  double 
row  of  small  pearls. 

"That  is  well,  Britta,"  said  Guldmar,  speaking  in  English, 
and  assisting  her  to  place  the  glasses.  "Now,  quick! — run 
after  thy  mistress  to  the  shore — her  boat  cannot  yet  have  left 
the  creek — bid  her  return  and  come  to  me — tell  her  there  are 
friends  here  who  will  be  glad  of  her  presence." 

Britta  hurried  away  at  once,  but  Errington's  heart  sunk. 
Thelma  had  gone — gone,  most  probably,  for  one  of  those  er- 
ratic journeys  across  the  fjord  to  the  cave  where  he  had  first 
seen  her.  She  would  not  come  back,  he  felt  certain;  not  even 
at  her  father's  request  would  that  beautiful,  proud  maiden 
consent  to  alter  her  plans.  What  an  unlucky  destiny  was  his! 
Absorbed  in  disappointed  reflections,  he  scarcely  heard  the 
enthusiastic  praises  Lorimer  was  diplomatically  bestowing  on 
the  bonde's  wine.  He  hardly  felt  its  mellow  flavor  on  his  own 
palate,  though  it  was  in  truth  delicious,  and  fit  for  the  table 
of  a  monarch.  Guldmar  noticed  the  young  baronet's  abstrac- 
tion, and  addressed  him  with  genial  kindness. 

"Are  you  thinking.  Sir  Philip,  of  my  rough  speeches  to  you 
yonder?  No  offense  was  meant,  no  offense — "  the  fellow 
paused,  and  laughed  over  his  wine-glass.  "Yet  I  may  as  well 
be  honest  about  it.  Offense  was  meant;  but  when  I  found 
that  none  was  taken,  my  humor  changed." 

A  slight,  half-weary  smile  played  on  Errington's  lips.  "I 
assure  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  agreed  with  you  then,  and  agree 
with  you  now,  in  every  word  you  uttered.  You  took  my 
measure  very  correctly,  and  allow  me  to  add  that  no  one  can 
be  more  conscious  of  my  own  insignificance  than  I  am  myself. 
The  days  we  live  in  are  insignificant;  the  chronicle  of  our 
paltry  doings  will  be  skipped  by  future  readers  of  the  coun- 
try's history.  Among  a  society  of  particularly  useless  men,  I 
feel  myself  to  be  one  of  the  most  useless.  If  you  could  show 
me  any  way  to  make  my  life  valuable — " 

He  paused  abruptly,  and  his  heart  beat  with  inexplicable 
rapidity.  A  light  step  and  the  rustle  of  a  dress  was  heard 
coming  through  the  porch;  another  perfumed  shower  of  rose- 
leaves  fell  softly  on  the  garden  path;  the  door  of  the  room 
opened,  and  a  tall,  fair,  white-robed  figure  shone  forth  from 


60  THELMA. 

the  dark  background  of  the  outer  passage — a  figure  that  hesi- 
tated on  the  threshold,  and  then  advanced  noiselessly  and 
with  a  reluctant  shyness.  The  old  bonde  turned  around  in  his 
chair  with  a  smile. 

"Ah,  here  she  is!"  he  said,  fondly.     "Where  hast  thou 
been,  my  Thelma?" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

And  Sigurd  the  Bishop  said, 
"The  old  gods  are  not  dead. 
For  the  great  Thor  still  reigns, 
And  among  the  Jarls  and  Thanes 
The  old  witchcraft  is  spread." 

Longfellow's  Saga  of  King  Olaf. 

The  girl  stood  silent,  and  a  faint  blush  crimsoned  her 
cheeks.  The  young  men  had  risen  at  her  entrance,  and  in 
one  fleeting  glance  she  recognized  Errington,  though  she  gave 
no  sign  to  that  effect. 

"See,  my  darling,"  continued  her  father,  "here  are  English 
visitors  to  Norway.  This  is  Sir  Philip  Errington,  who  travels 
through  our  wild  waters  in  the  great  steam  yacht  now  at 
anchor  in  the  fjord;  and  this  is  his  friend,  Mr. — Mr.  Lorimer — 
have  I  caught  your  name  rightly,  my  lad?"  he  continued, 
turning  to  George  Lorimer  with  a  kindly  smile. 

"You  have,  sir,"  answered  that  gentleman  promptly,  and 
then  he  was  mute,  feeling  curiously  abashed  in  the  presence 
of  this  royal-looking  young  lady,  who,  encircled  by  her  father's 
arm,  raised  her  deep,  dazzling  blue  eyes,  and  serenely  bent  her 
stately  head  to  him  as  his  name  was  mentioned. 

The  old  farmer  went  on:  "Welcome  them,  Thelma  mine! 
— friends  are  scarce  in  these  days,  and  we  must  not  be  un- 
grateful for  good  company.  What!  what!  I  know  honest  lads 
when  I  see  them!  Smile  on  them,  my  Thelma! — and  then  we 
will  warm  their  hearts  with  another  cup  of  wine." 

As  he  spoke  the  maiden  advanced  with  a  graceful,  even 
noble  air,  and  extending  both  her  hands  to  each  of  the  visitors 
in  turn,  she  said: 

"I  am  your  servant,  friends;  in  entering  this  house  you  do 
possess  it.    Peace  and  heart's  greeting!" 


THELMA.  61 

The  words  were  a  literal  translation  of  a  salutation  perfectly 
common  in  many  parts  of  Norway — a  mere  ordinary  expres- 
sion of  politeness;  but,  uttered  in  the  tender,  penetrating  tones 
of  the  most  musical  voice  they  had  ever  heard,  and  accom- 
panied by  the  warm,  frank,  double  hand-clasp  of  those  soft, 
small,  daintily  shaped  hands,  the  effect  on  the  minds  of  the 
generally  self-possessed,  fashionably  bred  young  men  of  the 
world  was  to  confuse  and  bewilder  them  to  the  last  degree. 
What  could  they  answer  to  this  poetical,  quaint  formula  of 
welcome?  The  usual  platitudes,  such  as  "Delighted,  I'm 
sure;"  or,  "Most  happy — aw,  charmed  to  meet  you?"  No; 
these  remarks  deemed  intelligent  by  the  lady  rulers  of  London 
drawing-rooms,  would,  they  felt,  never  do  here.  As  well  put  a 
gentleman  in  modern  evening  dress  en  face  with  a  half -nude, 
scornfully  beautiful  statue  of  Apollo,  as  trot  out  threadbare, 
insincere  commonplaces  in  the  hearing  of  this  clear-eyed  child 
of  nature,  whose  pure,  perfect  face  seemed  to  silently  repel 
the  very  passing  shadow  of  a  falsehood.  Philip's  brain  whirled 
round  and  about  in  search  of  some  suitable  reply,  but  could 
find  none;  and  Lorimer  felt  himself  blushing  like  a  school-boy, 
as  he  stammered  out  something  incoherent  and  eminentlv 
foolish,  though  he  had  sense  enough  left  to  appreciate  the 
pressure  of  those  lovely  hands  as  long  as  it  lasted. 

Thelma,  however,  appeared  not  to  notice  their  deep  em- 
barrassment— she  had  not  yet  done  with  them.  Taking  the 
largest  goblet  on  the  table,  she  filled  it  to  the  brim  with  wine, 
and  touched  it  with  her  lips — then  with  a  smile,  in  which  a 
thousand  radiating  sunbeams  seemed  to  quiver  and  sparkle, 
she  lifted  it  toward  Errington.  The  grace  of  her  attitude  and 
action  wakened  him  out  of  his  state  of  dreamy  bewilderment 
— in  his  soul  he  devoutly  blessed  these  ancient  family  cus- 
toms, and  rose  to  the  occasion  like  a  man.  Clasping  with  a 
tender  reverence  the  hands  that  upheld  the  goblet,  he  bent 
his  handsome  head  and  drank  a  deep  draught,  while  his  dark 
curls  almost  touched  her  fair  ones — and  then  an  insane  jeal- 
ousy possessed  him  for  a  moment,  as  he  watched  her  go 
through  the  same  ceremony  with  Lorimer. 

She  next  carried  the  now  more  than  half-emptied  cup  to  the 
bonde,  and  said,  as  she  held  it,  laughing  softly: 

"Drink  it  all,  father! — if  you  leave  a  drop,  you  know  these 
gentlemen  will  quarrel  with  us,  or  you  with  them." 

"That  is  true!"  said  Olaf  Guldmar,  with  great  gravity;  "but 


62  THELMA. 

it  will  not  be  my  fault,  child,  nor  the  fault  of  wasted  wine." 

And  he  drained  the  glass  to  its  dregs  and  set  it  upside  down 
on  the  table  with  a  deep  sigh  of  satisfaction  and  refreshment. 
The  ceremony  concluded,  it  was  evidence  the  ice  of  reserve 
was  considered  broken,  for  Thelma  seated  herself  like  a  young 
queen,  and  motioned  her  visitors  to  do  the  same  with  a  ges- 
ture of  gracious  condescension. 

"How  did  you  find  your  way  here?"  she  asked,  with  sweet 
yet  direct  abruptness,  giving  Sir  Philip  a  quick  glance,  in 
which  there  was  a  sparkle  of  mirth,  though  her  long  lashes 
veiled  it  almost  instantly. 

Her  entire  lack  of  stiffness  and  reserve  set  the  young  men 
at  their  ease,  and  they  fell  into  conversation  freely,  though 
Errington  allowed  Lorimer  to  tell  the  story  of  their  trespass 
in  his  own  fashion  without  interference.  He  instinctively  felt 
that  the  young  lady  who  listened  with  so  demure  a  smile  to 
that  plausible  narrative  knew  well  enough  the  real  motive 
that  had  brought  them  hither,  though  she  apparently  had  her 
own  reasons  for  keeping  silence  on  the  point,  as  whatever  she 
may  have  thought,  she  said  nothing. 

Lorimer  skillfully  avoided  betraying  the  fact  that  they  had 
watched  her  through  the  window,  and  had  listened  to  her 
singing.  And  Thelma  heard  all  the  explanations  patiently 
till  Bosekop  was  mentioned,  and  then  her  fair  face  grew  cold 
and  stern. 

"From  whom  did  you  hear  of  us  there?"  she  inquired.  "We 
do  not  mix  with  the  people — why  should  they  speak  of  us?" 

"The  truth  is,"  interposed  Errington,  resting  his  eyes  with 
a  sense  of  deep  delight  on  the  beautiful  rounded  figure  and 
lovely  features  that  were  turned  toward  him,  "I  heard  of  you 
first  through  my  pilot — one  Valdemar  Svensen." 

"Ha,  ha!"  cried  old  Guldmar,  Avith  some  excitement,  "there 
is  a  fellow  who  can  not  hold  his  tongue!  What  have  I  said  to 
thee,  child?  A  bachelor  is  no  better  than  a  gossiping  old 
woman.  He  that  is  always  alone  must  talk,  if  it  be  only  to 
woods  and  waves.  It  is  the  married  men  who  know  best  how 
excellent  it  is  to  keep  silence." 

They  all  laughed,  though  Thelma's  eyes  had  a  way  of  look- 
ing pensive  even  when  she  smiled. 

"You  would  not  blame  poor  Svensen  because  he  is  alone, 
father?"  she  said.     "Is  he  not  to  be  pitied?     Surely  it  is  a 


THELMA.  63 

cruel  fate  to  have  none  to  love  in  all  the  wide  world.  Noth- 
ing can  be  m^re  cruel!" 

Guldmar  surveyed  her  humorously,  "Hear  her!"  he  said. 
"She  talks  as  if  she  knew  all  about  such  things;  and  if  ever  a 
child  was  ignorant  of  sorrow,  surely  it  is  my  Thelma!  Every 
flower  and  bird  in  the  place  loves  her.  Yes;  I  have  thought 
sometimes  the  very  sea  loves  her.  It  must;  she  is  so  much 
ujjon  it.  And  as  for  her  old  father" — he  laughed  a  little, 
though  a  suspicious  moisture  softened  his  keen  yes — "why, 
he  doesn't  love  her  at  all.     Ask  her!     She  knows  it." 

Thelma  rose  quickly  and  kissed  him.  How  deliciously 
those  sweet  lips  pouted,  thought  Errington,  and  what  an  un- 
reasonable and  extraordinary  grudge  he  seemed  to  bear  toward 
the  venerable  bonde  for  accepting  that  kiss  with  so  httle  ap- 
parent emotion! 

"Hush,  father!"  she  said.  "These  friends  can  see  too  plain- 
ly how  much  you  spoil  me.  Tell  me" — and  she  turned  with  a 
sudden  pretty  imperiousness  to  Lorimer,  who  started  at  her 
voice  as  a  race-horse  starts  at  its  rider's  touch — "what  person 
in  Bosekop  spoke  of  us?" 

Lorimer  was  rather  at  a  loss,  inasmuch  as  no  one  in  the 
small  town  had  actually  spoken  of  them,  and  Mr.  Dyce- 
worthy's  remarks  concerning  those  who  were  "ejected  with 
good  reason  from  respectable  society"  might  not,  after  all, 
have  applied  to  the  Guldmar  family.  Indeed,  it  now  seemed 
an  absurd  and  improbable  supposition.  Therefore  he  replied 
cautiously: 

"The  Reverend  Mr.  Dyceworthy,  I  think,  has  some  knowl- 
edge of  you.     Is  he  not  a  friend  of  yours  ?" 

These  simple  words  had  a  most  unexpected  effect.  Olaf 
Guldmar  sprung  up  from  his  seat  flaming  with  wrath.  It  was 
in  vain  that  his  daughter  laid  a  restraining  hand  upon  his  arm. 
The  name  of  the  Lutheran  divine  had  sufficed  to  put  him  in  a 
towering  passion,  and  he  turned  furiously  upon  the  astonished 
Errington. 

"Had  I  known  you  came  from  the  devil,  sir,  you  should 
have  returned  to  him  speedily,  with  hot  words  to  hasten  your 
departure!  I  would  have  split  that  glass  to  atoms  before  I 
would  have  drained  it  after  you!  The  friends  of  a  false  heart 
are  no  friends  of  mine — the  followers  of  a  pretended  sanctity 
find  no  welcome  under  my  roof!  Why  not  have  told  me  at 
once  that  you  came  as  spies,  hounded  on  by  the  liar  Dyce- 


64  THELMA. 

worthy?  Why  not  have  confessed  it  openly, — and  not  have 
played  the  thief's  trick  on  an  old  fool,  who,  for  once,  misled 
by  your  manly  and  upright  bearing,  consented  to  lay  aside  the 
rightful  suspicions  he  at  first  entertained  of  your  purpose? 
Shame  on  you,  young  men!  shame!" 

The  words  coursed  impetuously  from  his  lips;  his  face 
burned  with  indignation.  He  had  broken  away  from  his 
daughter's  hold,  while  she,  pale  and  very  still,  stood  leaning 
one  hand  upon  the  table.  His  white  hair  was  tossed  back 
from  his  brow;  his  eyes  flashed;  his  attitude,  though  vengeful 
and  threatening,  was  at  the  same  time  so  bold  and  command- 
ing that  Lorimer  caught  himself  lazily  admiring  the  contour 
of  his  figure  and  wondering  how  he  would  look  in  marble  as 
an  infuriated  Viking. 

One  excellent  thing  in  the  dispositions  of  both  Errington 
and  Lorimer  was  that  they  never  lost  temper.  Either  they 
were  too  lazy  or  too  well-bred.  Undoubtedly  they  both  con- 
sidered it  "bad  form."  This  indifference  stood  them  in  good 
stead  now.  They  showed  no  sign  whatever  of  offense,  though 
the  old  farmer's  outbreak  of  wrath  was  so  sudden  and  un- 
looked  for  that  they  remained  for  a  moment  silent  out  of  sheer 
surprise.  Then,  rising  with  unruffled  serenity,  they  took  up 
their  caps  preparatory  to  departure.  Errington's  gentle,  re- 
fined voice  broke  the  silence. 

"You  are  in  error,  Mr.  (Juldmar,"  he  said,  in  chilly  but 
perfectly  polite  tones.  "1  regret  you  should  be  so  hasty  in 
your  judgment  of  us.  If  you  accepted  us  as  'men'  when  you 
first  met  us,  I  can  not  imagine  why  you  should  now  take  us 
for  spies.  The  two  terms  are  by  no  means  synonymous.  I 
know  nothing  of  Mr.  Dyceworthy  beyond  that  he  called  upon 
me,  and  that  I,  as  in  duty  bound,  returned  his  call.  I  am 
ignorant  of  his  character  and  disposition.  I  may  add  that  I 
have  no  desire  to  be  enlightened  respecting  them.  I  do  not 
often  take  a  dislike  to  anybody,  but  it  so  happens  that  I  have 
done  so  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Dyceworthy.  I  know  Lorimer 
doesn't  care  for  him,  and  I  don't  think  my  other  two  friends 
are  particularly  attached  to  him.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say, 
except  that  I  fear  we  have  outstayed  our  welcome.  Permit 
us  now  to  wish  you  good  evening.  And  you" — he  hesitated, 
and  turned  with  a  low  bow  to  Thelma,  who  had  listened  to 
his  words  with  a  gradually  dawning  brightness  on  her  face — 
"you  will,  I  trust,  exonerate  us  from  any  intentional  offense 


THELMA.  65 

toward  A^our  father  or  yourself?  Our  visit  has  proved  unlucky, 
but-" 

Thelma  interrupted  him  by  laying  her  fair  little  hand  on  his 
arm  with  a  wistful,  detaining  gesture,  which,  though  seem- 
ingly familiar,  was  yet  perfectly  sweet  and  natural.  The 
light  touch  thrilled  his  blood,  and  sent  it  coursing  through  his 
veins  at  more  than  customary  speed. 

"Ah,  then,  you  also  will  be  foolish!"  she  said,  with  a  naive, 
protecting  air  of  superior  dignity.  "Do  you  not  see  my 
father  is  sorry?  Have  we  all  kissed  the  cup  for  nothing,  or 
was  the  wine  wasted?  Not  a  drop  was  spilled;  how  then,  if 
we  are  friends,  should  we  part  in  coldness  ?  Father,  it  is  you 
to  be  ashamed — not  these  gentlemen,  who  are  strangers  to 
the  Alten  Fjord,  and  know  nothing  of  Mr.  Dyceworthy  or  any 
other  person  dwelling  here.  And  when  their  vessel  sails 
away  again  over  the  wide  seas  to  their  own  shores,  how  will 
you  have  them  think  of  you?  As  one  whose  heart  was  all 
kindness,  and  who  helped  to  make  their  days  pass  pleasantly? 
or  as  one  who,  in  unreasonable  anger,  forgot  the  duties  of 
sworn  hospitahty?" 

The  bonde  listened  to  her  full,  sweet,  reproachful  voice  as  a 
tough  old  lion  might  listen  to  the  voice  of  its  tamer,  uncertain 
whether  to  yield  or  spring.  He  wiped  his  heated  brow  and 
stared  around  him  shamefacedly.  Finally,  as  though  swallow- 
ing his  pride  with  a  gulp,  he  drew  a  long  breath,  took  a  couple 
of  determined  strides  forward,  and  held  out  his  hands,  one  to 
Errington,  and  the  other  to  Lorimer,  by  whom  they  were 
warmly  grasped. 

"There,  my  lads,"  he  said,  rapidly.  "I'm  sorry  I  spoke! 
Forgive  and  forget!  That  is  the  worst  of  me — my  blood  is  up 
in  a  minute,  and  old  though  I  am,  I'm  not  old  enough  yet  to 
be  patient.  And  when  I  hear  the  name  of  that  sneak  Dyce- 
worthy— by  the  gates  of  Valhalla,  I  feel  as  if  my  own  house 
would  not  hold  me!  No,  no;  don't  go  yet!  Nearly  ten? 
Well,  no  matter,  the  night  is  like  the  day  here,  you  see — it 
doesn't  matter  when  one  goes  to  bed.  Come  and  sit  in  the 
porch  awhile;  I  shall  get  cool  out  there.  Ah,  Thelma,  child! 
I  see  thee  laughing  at  thy  old  father's  temper!  Never  mind, 
never  mind;  is  it  not  for  thy  sake,  after  all?" 

And,  holding  Errington  by  the  arm,  he  led  the  way  into  the 
fine  old  porch,  Lorimer  following  with  rather  a  flushed  face, 
for  he,  as  he  passed  out  of  the  room,  had  managed  to  pick  up 
6 


66  THELMA. 

and  secrete  the  neglected  little  bunch  of  daisies,  before  noticed 
as  having  fallen  on  the  floor.  He  put  them  quickly  in  his 
breast  pocket  with  a  curious  sense  of  satisfaction,  though  he 
had  no  intention  of  keeping  them,  and  leaned  idly  against  the 
clambering  roses,  watching  Thelma,  as  she  drew  a  low  stool 
to  her  father's  feet  and  sat  there.  A  balmy  wind  blew  in 
from  the  fjord,  and  rustled  mysteriously  among  the  pines;  the 
sky  was  flecked  here  and  there  with  fleecy  clouds,  and  a  num- 
ber of  birds  were  singing  in  full  chorus.  Old  Guldmar  heaved 
a  sigh  of  relief,  as  though  his  recent  outburst  of  passion  had 
done  him  good. 

"I  will  tell  you,  Sir  Philip,"  he  said,  ruffling  his  daughter's 
curls  as  he  spoke — "I  will  tell  you  why  I  detest  the  villain 
Dyceworthy.  It  is  but  fair  you  should  know  it.  Now, 
Thelma! — why  that  push  to  my  knee?  You  fear  I  may  offend 
our  friends  again?  Nay,  I  will  take  good  care.  And  so,  flrst 
of  all,  I  ask  you,  what  is  your  religion?  Though  I  know  you 
cannot  be  Lutherans." 

Errington  was  somewhat  taken  aback  by  the  question.  He 
smiled. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  replied  at  last;  "to  be  frank  with  you,  I 
really  do  not  think  I  have  any  religion.  If  I  had,  I  suppose  I 
should  call  myself  a  Christian,  though,  judging  from  the  be- 
havior of  Christians  in  general,  I  cannot  be  one  of  them  after 
all — for  I  belong  to  no  sect,  I  go  to  no  church,  and  I  have 
never  read  a  tract  in  my  life.  I  have  a  profound  reverence 
and  admiration  for  the  character  and  doctrine  of  Christ,  and  I 
believe  if  I  had  had  the  privilege  of  knowing  and  conversing 
with  Him,  I  should  not  have  deserted  Him  in  extremity  as 
His  timorous  disciples  did.  I  believe  in  an  all-wise  Creator; 
so  you  see  I  am  not  an  atheist.  My  mother  was  an  Austrian 
and  a  Catholic,  and  I  have  a  notion  that,  as  a  small  child,  I 
was  brought  up  in  that  creed;  but  I'm  afraid  I  don't  know 
much  about  it  now." 

The  bonde  nodded  gravely.  "Thelma,  here,"  he  said,  "is  a 
Catholic,  as  her  mother  was — "  He  stopped  abruptly,  and  a 
deep  shadow  of  pain  darkened  his  features.  Thelma  looked 
up — her  large,  blue  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears,  and  she 
pressed  her  father's  hand  between  her  own,  as  though  in  sym- 
pathy with  some  undeclared  grief;  then  she  looked  at  Erring- 
ton  with  a  sort  of  wistful  appeal.  Philip's  heart  leaped  as 
he  met  that  soft,  beseeching  glance,  which  seemed  to  en- 


THELMA.  67 

treat  liis  patience  with  the  old  man  for  her  sake — he  felt  Mm- 
self  drawn  into  a  bond  of  union  with  her  thoughts,  and  in  his 
innermost  soul  he  swore  as  knightly  a  vow  of  cliivalry  and 
reverence  for  the  fair  maiden  who  thus  took  him  into  her 
silent  confidence,  as  though  he  were  some  gallant  Crusader  of 
old  time,  pledged  to  defend  his  lady's  honor  unto  death.  Olaf 
Guldmar,  after  a  long  and  apparently  sorrowful  pause,  re- 
sumed his  conversation. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "Thelma  is  a  Catholic,  though  here  she  has 
scarcely  any  opportunity  for  performing  the  duties  of  her  re- 
ligion. It  is  a  pretty  and  a  graceful  creed — well  fitted  for  wom- 
en. As  for  me,  I  am  made  of  sterner  stuff,  and  the  maxims 
of  that  gentle  creature,  Christ,  find  no  echo  in  my  soul.  But 
you,  young  sir,"  he  added,  turning  suddenly  on  Lorimer,  who 
was  engaged  in  meditatively  smoothing  out  on  his  palm  one 
of  the  fallen  rose-petals — "you  have  not  spoken.  What  faith 
do  you  profess  ?  It  is  no  curiosity  that  prompts  me  to  ask — I 
only  seek  not  to  offend." 

Lorimer  laughed  languidly.  "Upon  my  life,  Mr.  Guldmar, 
you  really  ask  too  much  of  me.  I  haven't  any  faith  at  all; 
not  a  shred!  It's  been  all  knocked  out  of  me.  I  tried  to  hold 
on  to  a  last  remaining  bit  of  Christian  rope  in  the  universal 
shipwreck,  but  that  was  torn  out  of  my  hands  by  a  scientific 
professor  who  ought  to  know  what  he  is  about,  and — and — 
now  I  drift  along  anyhow!" 

Guldmar  smiled  dubiously;  but  Thelma  looked  at  the  speak- 
er with  astonished,  regretful  eyes. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  simply.  "You  must  be  often  un- 
happy." 

Lorimer  was  not  disconcerted,  though  her  evident  pity 
caused  an  unwonted  fiush  on  his  face. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her,  "I  am  not  a  miserable 
sort  of  fellow  by  any  means.  For  instance,  I'm  not  afraid  of 
death — lots  of  very  religious  people  are  horribly  afraid  of  it, 
though  they  all  the  time  declare  it's  the  only  path  to  heaven. 
They're  not  consistent  at  all.  You  see  I  believe  in  nothing — 
I  came  from  nothing — I  am  nothing — I  shall  be  nothing.  That 
being  plain,  I  am  all  right." 

Guldmar  laughed.  "You  are  an  odd  lad,"  he  said  good- 
humoredly.  "You  are  in  the  morning  of  life;  there  are  always 
mists  in  the  morning  as  there  are  in  the  evening.  In  the  light 
of  your  full  manhood  you  will  see  these  things  differently. 


68  THELMA. 

Your  creed  of  Nothing  provides  no  moral  law— no  hold  on 
the  conscience,  no  restraint  on  the  passions— don't  you  see 

^^  Lorimer  smiled  with  a  very  winning  and  boyish  candor. 
"You  are  exceedingly  good,  sir,  to  credit  me  with  a  con- 
science! I  don't  think  I  have  one— I'm  sure  I  have  no  pas- 
sions. I  have  always  been  too  lazy  to  encourage  them,  and 
as  for  moral  law— I  adhere  to  morality  with  the  greatest  strict- 
ness, because  if  a  fellow  is  immoral  he  ceases  to  be  a  gentle- 
man. Now,  as  there  are  very  few  gentlemen  nowadays,  I  fancy 
I'd  like  to  be  one  as  long  as  I  can." 

Errington  here  interposed.  "You  mustn't  take  him  seri- 
ously, Mr.  Guldmar,"  he  said;  "he's  never  serious  himself. 
I'll  give  you  his  character  in  a  few  words.  He  belongs  to  no 
religious  party,  it's  true— but  he's  a  first-rate  fellow— the  best 
fellow  I  know!" 

Lorimer  glanced  at  him  quietly  with  a  gratified  expression 
on  his_  face.  But  he  said  nothing,  for  Thelma  was  regarding 
him  with  a  most  bewitching  smile. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  shaking  a  reproachful  finger  at  him,  "you 
do  love  all  nonsense,  that  I  can  see!  You  would  make  every 
person  laugh,  if  you  could — is  it  not  so?" 

"Well,  yes,"  admitted  George,  "I  think  I  would!  But  it's  a 
herculean  task  sometimes.  If  you  had  ever  been  to  London, 
Miss  Guldmar,  you  would  understand  how  difficult  it  is  to 
make  people  even  smile — and  when  they  do  the  smile  is  not  a 
very  natural  one." 

"Why?"  she  exclaimed.    "Are  they  all  so  miserable?" 

"They  pretend  to  be,  if  they're  not,"  said  Lorimer;  "it  is 
the  fashion  there  to  find  fault  with  everything  and  every- 
body." 

"That  is  so,"  said  Guldmar,  thoughtfully.  "I  visited  Lon- 
don once  and  thought  I  was  in  hell.  Nothing  but  rows  of 
hard,  hideously  built  houses,  long  streets,  and  dirty  alleys, 
and  the  people  had  weary  faces  all,  as  though  Nature  had  re- 
fused to  bless  them.  A  pitiful  city — doubly  pitiful  to  the  eyes 
of  a  man  like  myself,  whose  life  has  been  passed  among  fjords 
and  mountains  such  as  these.  Well,  now,  as  neither  of  you 
are  Lutherans — in  fact,  as  neither  of  you  seem  to  know  what 
you  are,"  and  he  laughed — "I  can  be  frank,  and  speak  out  as 
to  my  own  belief.  I  am  proud  to  say  I  have  never  deserted 
the  faith  of  my  fathers — the  faith  that  makes  a  man's  soul 


THELMA.  69 

strong  and  fearless,  and  defiant  of  evil — the  faith  that  is  sup- 
posed to  be  crushed  out  among  us,  but  that  is  still  alive  and 
rooted  in  the  hearts  of  many  who  can  trace  back  their  lineage 
to  the  ancient  Vikings  as  I  can — yes! — rooted  firm  and  fast — 
and  however  much  some  of  the  more  timorous  feign  to  con- 
ceal it  in  the  tacit  acceptance  of  another  creed,  there  are  those 
who  can  never  shake  it  off,  and  who  never  desire  to  forsake  it. 
I  am  one  of  these  few.  Shame  must  fall  on  the  man  who 
willfully  deserts  the  faith  of  his  warrior-ancestry!  Sacred  to 
me  forever  be  the  names  of  Odin  and  Thor!" 

He  raised  his  hand  aloft  with  a  proud  gesture,  and  his  eyes 
flashed.  Errington  was  interested,  but  not  surprised;  the  old 
bonde's  declaration  of  his  creed  seemed  eminently  fitted  to  his 
character.  Lorimer's  face  brightened — here  was  a  novelty — 
a  man  who,  in  all  the  conflicting  storms  of  modern  opinion, 
sturdily  clung  to  the  traditions  of  his  forefathers. 

"By  Jove!"  he  exclaimed,  eagerly,  "I  think  the  worship  of 
Odin  would  suit  me  perfectly!  It's  a  rousing,  fighting  sort  of 
religion — I'm  positive  it  would  make  a  man  of  me.  Will  you 
initiate  me  into  the  mysteries,  Mr.  Guldmar?  There's  a  fel- 
low in  London  who  writes  poetry  on  Indian  subjects,  and  who, 
it  is  said,  thinks  Buddhism  might  satisfy  his  pious  yearnings 
— but  I  think  Odin  would  be  a  personage  to  command  more 
respect  than  Buddha — at  any  rate,  I  should  like  to  try  him. 
Will  you  give  me  a  chance?" 

Olaf  Guldmar  smiled  gravely,  and  rising  from  his  seat, 
pointed  to  the  western  sky. 

"See  yonder  threads  of  filmy  white,"  he  said,  "that  stretch 
across  the  wide  expanse  of  blue!  They  are  the  lingering,  fad- 
ing marks  of  light  clouds — and  even  while  we  watch  them 
they  shall  pass  and  be  no  more.  Such  is  the  emblem  of  your 
life,  young  man — you  that  would,  for  an  idle  jest  or  pastime, 
presume  to  search  into  the  mysteries  of  Odin!  For  you  they 
are  not — your  spirit  is  not  of  the  stern  mold  that  waits  for 
death  as  gladly  as  the  bridegroom  waits  for  the  bride!  The 
Christian  heaven  is  an  abode  for  girls  and  babes — Valhalla  is 
the  place  for  men!  I  tell  you,  my  creed  is  as  divine  in  its 
origin  as  any  that  ever  existed  on  the  earth!  The  Rainbow 
Bridge  is  a  fairer  pathway  from  death  to  life  than  the  doleful 
Cross — and  better  far  the  dark  summoning  eyes  of  a  beauteous 
Valkyrie  than  the  grinning  skull  and  cross-bones,  the  Chris- 
tian emblem  of  mortalitv.    Thelma  thinks — and  her  mother 


70  THELMA. 

before  her  thought  also — that  different  as  my  way  of  beUef  is 
to  the  accepted  creeds  of  to-day,  it  will  be  all  right  with  me 
in  the  next  world — that  I  shall  have  as  good  a  place  in  heaven 
as  any  Christian,  It  may  be  so — I  care  not!  But  see  you — 
the  key-note  of  all  civilization  of  to-day  is  discontent,  while  I 
— thanks  to  the  gods  of  my  fathers — am  happy,  and  desire 
nothing  that  I  have  not." 

He  paused  and  seemed  absorbed.  The  young  men  watched 
his  fine  inspired  features  with  lively  interest.  Thelma's  head 
was  turned  away  from  them  so  that  her  face  was  hidden.  By 
and  by  he  resumed,  in  quieter  tones : 

"Now,  my  lads,  you  know  what  we  are — both  of  us  accursed 
in  the  opinion  of  the  Lutheran  community.  My  child  belongs 
to  the  so-called  idolatrous  Church  of  Eome.  I  am  one  of  the 
very  last  of  the  'heathen  barbarians' " — and  the  old  fellow 
smiled  sarcastically — "though,  truth  to  tell,  for  a  barbarian,  I 
am  not  such  a  fool  as  some  folks  would  have  you  think.  If 
the  snuffling  Dyceworthy  and  I  competed  at  a  spelling  exami- 
nation, I'm  pretty  sure  'tis  I  would  have  the  prize!  But,  as  I 
said — you  know  us — and  if  our  ways  are  likely  to  offend  you, 
then  let  us  part  good  friends  before  the  swords  are  fairly 
drawn." 

"No  sword  will  be  drawn  on  my  side,  I  assure  you,  sir," 
said  Errington,  advancing  and  laying  one  hand  on  the  bonde's 
shoulder.  "I  hope  you  will  believe  me  when  I  say  I  shall 
esteem  it  an  honor  and  a  privilege  to  know  more  of  you." 

"And  though  you  won't  accept  me  as  a  servant  of  Odin," 
added  Lorimer,  "you  really  can  not  prevent  me  from  trying 
to  make  myself  agreeable  to  you.  I  warn  you,  Mr.  Guldmar, 
I  shall  visit  you  pretty  frequently!  Such  men  as  you  are  not 
often  met  with." 

Olaf  Guldmar  looked  surprised.  "You  really  mean  it?"  he 
said.  "Nothing  that  I  have  told  you  affects  you?  You  still 
seek  our  friendship?" 

They  both  earnestly  assured  him  that  they  did,  and  as  they 
spoke  Thelma  rose  from  her  low  seat  and  faced  them  with  a 
bright  smile. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  the  first  people 
who,  on  visiting  us  once,  have  ever  eared  to  come  again?  Ah, 
you  look  surprised,  but  it  is  so,  is  it  not,  father?" 

Guldmar  nodded  a  grave  assent. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  demurely  counting  on  her  little  white 


THELMA.  71 

fingers,  "we  are  three  things — first,  we  are  accursed;  secondly, 
we  have  the  evil  eye;  thirdly,  we  are  not  respectable!" 

And  she  broke  into  a  peal  of  laughter,  ringing  and  sweet  as 
a  chime  of  bells.  The  young  men  joined  her  in  it;  and,  still 
with  an  amused  expression  on  her  lovely  face,  leaning  her 
head  back  against  a  cluster  of  pale  roses,  she  went  on: 

"My  father  dislikes  Mr.  Dyceworthy  so  much  because  he 
wants  to — to — oh,  what  is  it  they  do  to  savages,  father?  Yes, 
I  know — to  convert  us — to  make  us  Lutherans.  And  when  he 
finds  it  all  no  use,  he  is  angry;  and,  though  he  is  so  religious, 
if  he  hears  any  one  telling  some  untruth  about  us  in  Bosekop, 
he  will  add  another  thing  equally  untrue,  and  so  it  grows  and 
grows,  and — why!  what  is  the  matter  with  you?"  she  ex- 
claimed in  surprise  as  Errington  scowled  and  clinched  his  fist 
in  a  peculiarly  threatening  manner. 

"I  should  like  to  knock  him  down!"  he  said  briefly,  under 
his  breath. 

Old  Guldmar  laughed  and  looked  at  the  young  baronet  ap- 
provingly. 

"Who  knows,  who  knows!"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "You  may 
do  it  some  day!  It  will  be  a  good  deed!  I  will  do  it  myself 
if  he  troubles  me  much  more.  And  now  let  us  make  some 
arrangement  with  you.  When  will  you  come  and  see  us 
again?" 

"You  must  visit  me  first,"  said  Sir  Philip,  quickly.  "If  you 
and  your  daughter  will  honor  me  with  your  company  to-mor- 
row, I  shall  be  proud  and  pleased.  Consider  the  yacht  at  your 
service/' 

Thelma,  resting  among  the  roses,  looked  across  at  him  with 
serious,  questioning  eyes — eyes  that  seemed  to  be  asking  his 
intentions  toward  both  her  and  her  father. 

Guldmar  accepted  the  invitation  at  once,  and,  the  hour  for 
their  visit  next  day  being  fixed  and  agreed  upon,  the  young 
men  began  to  take  their  leave.  As  Errington  clasped  Thel- 
ma's  hand  in  farewell,  he  made  a  bold  venture.  He  touched 
a  rose  that  hung  just  above  her  head  almost  dropping  on  her 
hair. 

"May  I  have  it  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  low  tone. 

Their  eyes  met.  The  girl  flushed  deeply,  and  then  grew 
pale.  She  broke  off  the  flower  and  gave  it  to  him — then 
turned  to  Lorimer  to  say  good-bye.  They  left  her  then, 
standing  under  the  porch,  shading  her  brow  with  one  hand 


72  THELMA. 

from  the  glittering  sunlight  as  she  watched  them  descending 
the  winding  path  to  the  shore,  accompanied  by  her  father, 
who  hospitably  insisted  on  seeing  them  into  their  boat.  They 
looked  back  once  or  twice,  always  to  see  the  slender,  tall 
white  figure  standing  there  like  an  angel  resting  in  a  bower 
of  roses,  with  the  sunshine  flashing  on  a  golden  crown  of 
hair.  At  the  last  turn  in  the  pathway  Philip  raised  his  hat 
and  waved  it,  but  whether  she  condescended  to  wave  her  hand 
in  answer  he  could  not  see. 

Left  alone,  she  sighed,  and  went  slowly  into  the  house  to 
resume  her  spinning.  Hearing  the  whirr  of  the  wheel,  the 
servant  Britta  entered. 

"You  are  not  going  in  the  boat,  Froken?"  she  asked,  in  a 
tone  of  mingled  deference  and  aft'ection. 

Thelma  looked  up,  smiled  faintly,  and  shook  her  head  in 
the  negative. 

"It  is  late,  Britta,  and  I  am  tired." 

And  the  deep-blue  eyes  had  an  intense  dreamy  light  within 
them  as  they  wandered  from  the  wheel  to  the  wide-open  win- 
dow, and  rested  on  the  majestic  darkness  of  the  overshadow- 
ing, solemn  pines. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 

In  mezzo  del  mio  core  c'e  una  spina; 
Non  c'e  barbier  che  la  possa  levare — 
Solo  11  mio  amore  colla  sua  manina. 

Rime  Popolari. 

Errington  and  Lorimer  pulled  away  across  the  fjord  in  a 
silence  that  lasted  for  many  minutes.  Old  Guldmar  stood 
on  the  edge  of  his  little  pier  to  watch  them  out  of  sight.  So, 
till  their  boat  turned  the  sharp  corner  of  the  projecting  rock 
that  hid  the  landing-place  from  view,  they  saw  his  picturesque 
figure  and  gleaming  silvery  hair  outlined  clearly  against  the 
background  of  the  sky — a  sky  now  tenderly  flushed  with  pink 
like  the  inside  of  a  delicate  shell.  When  they  could  no  longer 
perceive  him  they  still  rowed  on,  speaking  no  word — the 
measured,  musical  plash  of  the  oars  through  the  smooth,  dark 
olive-green  water  alone  breaking  the  stillness  around  them. 
There  was  a  curious  sort  of  hushed  breathlessness  in  the  air; 


THELMA.  73 

fantastic,  dream-like  lights  and  shadows  played  on  the  little 
wrinkling  waves;  sudden  flushes  of  crimson  came  and  went  in 
the  western  horizon,  and  over  the  high  summits  of  the  sur- 
rounding mountains  mysterious  shapes,  formed  of  purple  and 
gray  mist,  rose  up  and  crept  softly  downward,  winding  in  and 
out  deep  valleys  and  dark  ravines,  like  wandering  spirits  sent 
on  some  secret  and  sorrowful  errand.  After  awhile  Errington 
said,  almost  vexedly: 

"Are  you  struck  dumb,  George?  Haven't  you  a  word  to 
say  to  a  fellow?" 

"Just  what  I  was  about  to  ask  you,"  replied  Lorimer,  care- 
lessly; "and  I  was  also  going  to  remark  that  we  hadn't  seen 
your  mad  friend  up  at  the  Guldmar  residence." 

"No.  Yet  I  can't  help  thinking  he  has  something  to  do 
with  them,  all  the  same,"  returned  Errington,  meditatively. 
"I  tell  you,  he  swore  at  me  by  some  old  Norwegian  infernal 
place  or  other.  I  dare  say  he's  an  Odin  worshiper,  too. 
But  never  mind  him.    What  do  you  think  of  her?" 

Lorimer  turned  lazily  round  in  the  boat,  so  that  he  faced  his 
companion. 

"Well,  old  fellow,  if  you  ask  me  frankly,  I  think  she  is  the 
most  beautiful  woman  I  ever  saw,  or,  for  that  matter,  ever 
heard  of.  And  I  am  an  impartial  critic — perfectly  impartial." 
And,  resting  on  his  oar,  he  dipped  the  blade  musingly  in  and 
out  of  the  water,  watching  the  bright  drops  fall  with  an  oil- 
like smoothness  as  they  trickled  from  the  polished  wood  and 
glittered  in  the  late  sunshine  like  vari-colored  jewels.  Then 
he  glanced  curiously  at  Philip,  who  sat  silent,  but  whose  face 
was  very  grave  and  earnest — even  noble,  with  that  shade  of 
profound  thought  upon  it.  He  looked  like  one  who  had  sud- 
denly accepted  a  high  trust,  in  which  there  was  not  only  pride, 
but  tenderness.  Lorimer  shook  himself  together,  as  he  him- 
self would  have  expressed  it,  and  touched  his  friend's  arm 
half  playfully. 

"You've  met  the  king's  daughter  of  Norroway  after  all, 
Phil;"  and  his  light  accents  had  a  touch  of  sadness  in  them; 
"and  you'll  have  to  bring  her  home,  as  the  old  song  says.  I 
believe  the  'eligible'  is  caught  at  last.  The  'woman'  of  the 
piece  has  turned  up,  and  your  chum  must  play  second  fiddle — 
eh,  old  boy?" 

Errington  flushed  hotly,  but  caught  Lorimer's  hand  and 
pressed  it  with  tremendous  fervor. 


74  THEL-MA. 

"By  Jove,  I'll  wring  it  off  your  wrist  if  you  talk  in  that 
fashion,  George!"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "You'll  always  be 
the  same  to  me,  and  you  know  it.  I  tell  you,"  and  he  pulled 
his  mustache  doubtfully,  "I  don't  know  quite  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  me.  That  girl  fascinates  me!  I  feel  a  fool  in  her 
presence.    Is  that  a  sign  of  being  in  love,  I  wonder?" 

"Certainly  not!"  returned  George,  promptly;  "for  I  feel  a 
fool  in  her  presence,  and  I'm  not  in  love." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  And  Errington  glanced  at  him 
keenly  and  inquiringly. 

"How  do  I  know?  Come,  I  like  that!  Have  I  studied  my- 
self all  these  years  for  nothing?  Look  here" — and  he  carefully 
drew  out  the  little  withering  bunch  of  daisies  he  had  pur- 
loined— "these  are  for  you.  I  knew  you  wanted  them,  though 
you  hadn't  the  impudence  to  pick  them  up,  and  I  had.  I 
thought  you  might  like  to  put  them  under  your  pillow,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  because  if  one  is  resolved  to  become  love- 
lunatic,  one  may  as  well  do  the  thing  properly  out  and  out — 
I  hate  all  half -measures.  Now,  if  the  remotest  thrill  of  senti- 
ment were  in  me,  you  can  understand,  I  hope,  that  wild  horses 
would  not  have  torn  this  adorable  posy  from  my  possession! 
I  should  have  kept  it,  and  you  would  never  have  known  of  it," 
and  he  laughed  softly.  "Take  it,  old  fellow!  You're  rich  now, 
with  the  rose  she  gave  you  besides.  What  is  all  your  wealth 
compared  with  the  sacred  preciousness  of  such  blossoms! 
There,  don't  look  so  awfully  ecstatic,  or  I  shall  be  called  upon 
to  ridicule  you  in  the  interests  of  common  sense.  Say  you're 
in  love  with  the  girl  at  once,  and  have  done  with  it.  Don't 
beat  about  the  bush!" 

"I'm  not  sure  about  it,"  said  Philip,  taking  the  daisies 
gratefully,  however,  and  pressing  them  in  his  pocket-book.  "I 
don't  believe  in  love  at  first  sight!" 

"I  do,"  returned  Lorimer,  decidedly.  "Love  is  electricity. 
Two  telegrams  are  enough  to  settle  the  business — one  from 
the  eyes  of  the  man,  the  other  from  those  of  the  woman.  You 
and  Miss  Guldmar  must  have  exchanged  a  dozen  such  mes- 
sages at  least." 

"And  you?"  inquired  Errington,  persistently.  "You  had 
the  same  chance  as  myself." 

George  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "My  dear  boy,  there  are 
no  wires  of  communication  between  the  sun-angel  and  myself; 
nothing  but  a  blank,  innocent  landscape,  over  which,  perhaps, 


THELMA.  75 

some  day  the  mild  luster  of  friendship  may  heam.  The  girl 
is  beautiful — extraordinarily  so;  but  I'm  not  a  '^man  o'  wax/ 
as  Juliet's  gabbling  old  nurse  says — not  in  the  least  impres- 
sionable." 

And  forthwith  he  resumed  his  oar,  saying,  briskly,  as  he  did 
so: 

"Phil,  do  you  know  those  other  fellows  must  be  swearing 
at  us  pretty  forcibly  for  leaving  them  so  long  with  Dyce- 
worthy.    We've  been  away  two  hours!" 

"Not  possible!"  cried  Errington,  amazed,  and  wielding  his 
oar  vigorously.  "They'll  think  me  horribly  rude.  By  Jove, 
they  must  be  bored  to  death!" 

And,  stimulated  by  the  thought  of  the  penance  their 
friends  were  enduring,  they  sent  the  boat  spinning  swiftly 
through  the  water,  and  rowed  as  though  they  were  trying 
for  a  race,  when  they  were  suddenly  pulled  up  by  a  loud 
"Halloo!"  and  the  sight  of  another  iDoat  coming  slowly  out 
from  Bosekop,  wherein  two  individuals  were  standing  up,  ges- 
ticulating violently. 

"There  they  are!"  exclaimed  Lorimer.  "I  say,  Phil,  they've 
hired  a  special  tub,  and  are  coming  out  to  us." 

So  it  proved.  Duprez  and  Macfarlane  had  grown  tired  of 
waiting  for  their  truant  companions,  and  had  taken  the  first 
clumsy  wherry  that  presented  itself,  rowed  by  an  even  clum- 
sier Norwegian  boatman,  whom  they  had  been  compelled  to 
engage  also,  as  he  would  not  let  his  ugly  punt  out  of  his 
sight,  for  fear  some  harm  might  chance  to  befall  it.  Thus  at- 
tended, they  were  on  their  way  back  to  the  yacht.  With  a  few 
long,  elegant  strokes,  Errington  and  Lorimer  soon  brought 
their  boat  alongside,  and  their  friends  gladly  jumped  into  it, 
delighted  to  be  free  of  the  company  of  the  wooden-faced  mari- 
ner they  had  so  reluctantly  hired,  and  who  now,  on  receiving 
his  fee,  paddled  awkwardly  away  in  his  ill-constructed  craft, 
without  either  a  word  of  thanks  or  salutation.  Errington  be- 
gan to  apologize  at  once  for  his  long  absence,  giving  as  a 
reason  for  it  the  necessity  he  found  himself  under  of  making 
a  call  on  some  persons  of  importance  in  the  neighborhood, 
whom  he  had,  till  now,  forgotten. 

"My  dear  Phil-eep!"  cried  Duprez,  in  his  cheery  sing-song 
accent,  "why  apologize?  We  have  amused  ourselves!  Our 
dear  Sandy  has  a  vein  of  humor  that  is  astonishing!  We  have 
not  wasted  our  time.    No!     We  have  made  Mr.  Dyceworthy 


76  THELMA. 

our  slave;  we  have  conquered  him;  we  have  abased  him!  He 
is  what  we  please — he  is  for  all  gods  or  for  no  god — just  as  we 
pull  the  string!  In  plain  words,  mon  clier,  that  amiable  re- 
ligious is  drunk!" 

"Drunk!"  cried  Errington  and  Lorimer  together.  "Jove! 
you  don't  mean  it?" 

Macfarlane  looked  up  with  a  twinkle  of  satirical  humor  in 
his  deep-set  gray  eyes. 

"Ye  see/'  he  said,  seriously,  "the  Lacrima,  or  Papist  wine, 
as  he  calls  it,  was  strong — we  got  him  to  take  a  good  dose  o't 
— a  vera  fair  dose  indeed.  Then,  doun  he  sat,  an'  fell  to  con- 
vairsing  vera  pheelosophically  o'  mony  things — it  wad  hae 
done  ye  gude  to  hear  him — he  was  fair  lost  in  the  mazes  o' 
his  metapheesics,  for  twa  flies  took  a  bit  saunter  through  the 
pleasant  dewy  lanes  o'  his  forehead,  an'  he  never  raised  a 
finger  to  send  them  awa'  aboot  their  beeziness.  Then  I  thocht 
I  wad  try  him  wi'  the  whusky — I  had  ma  pocket-flask  wi'  me 
— an'  oh,  mon!  he  was  sairly  glad  and  gratefu'  for  the  flrst 
snack  o't!  He  said  it  was  deevilish  fine  stuff,  an'  so  he  took 
ane  drappikie,  an'  anither  drappikie,  and  yet  anither  drappi- 
kie" — Sandy's  accent  got  more  and  more  pronounced  as  he 
went  on — "an'  after  a  bit,  his  heed  dropt  doun,  an'  he  took  a 
wee  snoozle  of  a  minute  or  twa — then  he  woke  up  in  a'  his 
strength  an'  just  grappit  the  flask  in  his  twa  hands  an'  took  the 
hale  o't  off  at  a  grand,  rousin'  gulp!  Ma  certes!  after  it  ye 
shuld  ha'  seen  him  laughin'  like  a  feckless  fule,  an'  rubbin' 
an'  rubbin'  his  heed,  till  his  hair  was  like  the  straw  kicked 
roond  by  a  mad  coo!" 

Lorimer  lay  back  in  the  stern  of  the  boat  and  laughed  up- 
roariously at  this  extraordinary  picture,  as  did  the  others. 

"But  that  is  not  all,"  said  Duprez,  with  delighted  mischief 
sparkling  in  his  wicked  little  dark  eyes;  "the  dear  religious 
opened  his  heart  to  us.  He  spoke  thickly,  but  we  could 
understand  him.  He  was  very  impressive!  He  is  quite  of 
my  opinion.  He  says  all  religion  is  nonsense,  fable,  impost- 
ure— Man  is  the  only  god,  Woman  his  creature  and  subject. 
Again — man  and  woman,  conjoined,  make  up  divinity,  neces- 
sity, law.  He  was  quite  clear  on  that  point.  Why  did  he 
preach  what  he  did  not  believe,  we  asked?  He  almost  wept. 
He  replied  that  the  children  of  this  world  liked  fairy-stories, 
and  he  was  paid  to  tell  them.  It  was  his  bread  and  butter — 
would  we  wish  him  to  have  no  bread  and  butter?  We  assured 


THELMA.  77 

him  SO  cruel  a  thought  had  no  place  in  our  hearts!  Then  he 
is  amorous — yes!  the  good  fat  man  is  amorous.  He  would 
have  become  a  priest,  but  on  close  examination  of  the  con- 
fessionals he  saw  there  was  no  possibility  of  seeing,  much  less 
kissing,  a  lady  penitent  through  the  grating.  So  he  gave  up 
that  idea!  In  his  form  of  faith  he  can  kiss,  he  says^ — he  does 
kiss! — always  a  holy  kiss,  of  course!  He  is  so  ingenuous — so 
delightfully  frank — it  is  quite  charming!" 

They  laughed  again.  Sir  Philip  looked  somewhat  dis- 
gusted. 

"What  an  old  brute  he  must  be!"  he  said.  "Somebody 
ought  to  kick  him — a  holy  kick,  of  course,  and  therefore  more 
intense  and  forcible  than  other  kicks." 

"You  begin,  Phil,"  laughed  Lorimer,  "and  we'll  all  follow 
suit.  He'll  be  like  that  Indian  in  'Vathek'  who  rolled  himself 
into  a  ball;  no  one  could  resist  kicking  as  long  as  the  ball 
bounded  before  them — we,  similarly,  shall  not  be  able  to  re- 
sist, if  Dyceworthy's  fat  person  is  once  left  at  our  mercy." 

"That  was  a  grand  bit  he  told  us,  Errington,"  resumed 
Macfarlane.  "Ye  should  ha'  heard  him  talk  aboot  his  love- 
affair! — the  saft  jelly  of  a  man  that  he  is,  to  be  making  up  to 
ony  woman." 

At  that  moment  they  ran  alongside  of  the  "Eulalie"  and 
threw  up  their  oars. 

"Stop  a  bit,"  said  Errington.    "Tell  us  the  rest  on  board." 

The  ladder  was  lowered;  they  mounted  it,  and  their  boat 
was  hauled  up  to  its  place. 

"Go  on!"  said  Lorimer,  throwing  himself  lazily  into  a  deck 
arm-chair  and  lighting  a  cigar,  while  the  others  leaned  against 
the  yacht  rails  and  followed  his  example.  "Go  on,  Sandy — 
this  is  fun!  Dyceworthy's  amours  must  be  amusing.  I  sup- 
pose he's  after  t4iat  ugly  wooden  block  of  a  woman  we  saw  at 
his  house  who  is  so  zealous  for  the  'true  gospel'?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  replied  Sandy,  with  imn^ense  gravity. 
"The  auld  Silenus  has  better  taste.  He  says  there's  a  young 
lass  running  after  him,  fit  to  break  her  heart  aboot  him — puir 
thing,  she  must  have  vera  little  choice  o'  men!  He  hasna 
quite  made  up  his  mind,  though  he  admeets  she's  as  fine  a  lass 
as  ony  man  need  require.  He's  sorely  afraid  she  has  set  her- 
self to  catch  him,  as  he  says  she's  an  eye  like  a  warlock  for  a 
really  strong,  good-looking  fellow  like  himself,"  and  Macfar- 
lane chuckled  audibly.    "May  be  he'll  take  pity  on  her,  may 


78  THELMA. 

be  he  won't;  the  misguided  lassie  will  be  sairly  teased  by  him 
from  a'  he  tauld  us  in  his  cups.  He  gave  us  her  name — the 
oddest  in  a'  the  warld  for  sure — I  canna  just  remember  it." 

"I  can,"  said  Duprez,  glibly.  "It  struck  me  as  quaint  and 
pretty — Thelma  Guldmar!" 

Errington  started  so  violently  and  flushed  so  deeply  that 
Lorimer  was  afraid  of  some  rash  outbreak  of  wrath  on  his 
part.  But  he  restrained  himself  by  a  strong  effort.  He 
merely  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  puffed  a  light  cloud 
of  smoke  into  the  air  before  replying,  then  he  said,  coldly: 

"I  should  say  Mr.  Dyceworthy,  besides  being  a  drunkard,  is 
a  most  consummate  liar.  It  so  happens  that  the  Guldmars 
are  the  very  people  I  have  just  visited — highly  superior  in 
every  way  to  anybody  we  have  yet  met  in  Norway.  In  fact, 
Mr.  and  Miss  Guldmar  will  come  on  board  to-morrow.  I  have 
invited  them  to  dine  with  us;  you  will  then  be  able  to  judge 
for  yourselves  whether  the  young  lady  is  at  all  of  the  descrip- 
tion Mr.  Dyceworthy  gives  of  her." 

Duprez  and  Macfarlane  exchanged  astonished  looks. 

"Are  ye  quite  sure,"  the  latter  ventured  to  remark,  cautious- 
ly, "that  ye're  prudent  in  what  ye  have  done?  Eemember 
ye  have  asked  no  pairson  at  a'  to  dine  with  ye  as  yet — it's  a 
vera  sudden  an'  exceptional  freak  o'  hospitality." 

Errington  smoked  on  peacefully  and  made  no  answer.  Du- 
prez hummed  a  verse  of  a  French  chansonnette  under  his 
breath  and  smiled.  Lorimer  glanced  at  him  with  a  lazy  amuse- 
ment. 

"Unburden  yourself,  Pierre,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  he  said. 
"Your  mind  is  as  uncomfortable  as  a  loaded  camel.  Let  it 
lie  down,  while  you  take  off  its  packages,  one  by  one,  and 
reveal  their  contents.    In  short,  what's  up?" 

Duprez  made  a  rapid,  expressive  gesture  with  his  hands. 

"Mon  cher,  I  fear  to  displease  Phil-eep!  He  has  invited 
these  people;  they  are  coming — Men!  there  is  no  more  to  say." 

"I  disagree  with  ye,"  interposed  Macfarlane.  "I  think 
Errington  should  hear  what  we  ha'  heard;  it's  fair  an'  just  to 
a  mon  that  he  should  understand  what  sort  o'  folk  are  gaun 
to  pairtake  wi'  him  at  his  table.  Ye  see,  Errington,  ye  should 
ha'  thocht  a  wee  before  inviting  pairsons  o'  unsettled  an' 
dootful  chairacter — " 

"Who  says  they  are?"  demanded  Errington,  half  angrily. 
"The  drunken  Dyceworthy?" 


THELMA.  79 

"He  was  no  sae  drunk  at  the  time  he  tauld  us,"  persisted 
Macfarlane,  in  his  most  obstinate,  most  dictatorial  manner. 
Ye  see,  it's  just  this  way — " 

"Ah,  pardon!"  interrupted  Duprez,  briskly.  "Our  dear 
Sandy  is  an  excellent  talker,  but  he  is  a  little  slow.  Thus  it 
is,  mon  cher  Errington.  This  gentleman  named  Guldmar  had 
a  most  lovely  wife — a  mysterious  lady,  with  an  evident  secret. 
The  beautiful  one  was  never  seen  in  the  church  or  in  any 
town  or  village;  she  was  met  sometimes  on  hills,  by  rivers,  in 
valleys,  carrying  her  child  in  her  arms.  The  people  grew 
afraid  of  her;  but,  now,  see  what  happens!  Suddenly  she 
appears  no  more;  some  one  ventures  to  ask  this  Monsieur 
Guldmar:  'What  has  become  of  madame?'  His  answer  is 
brief.  'She  is  dead!'  Satisfactory  so  far,  yet  not  quite;  for, 
madame  being  dead,  then  what  has  become  of  the  corpse  of 
madame?  It  was  never  seen — no  coffin  was  ever  ordered — 
and  apparently  it  was  never  buried!  Bien!  What  follows? 
The  good  people  of  Bosekop  draw  the  only  conclusion  possible 
— Monsieur  Guldmar,  who  is  said  to  have  a  terrific  temper, 
killed  madame,  and  made  away  with  her  body.     Voila!" 

And  Duprez  waved  his  hand  with  an  air  of  entire  satisfac- 
tion. 

Errington's  brow  grew  somber.  "This  is  the  story,  is  it?" 
he  asked  at  last. 

"It  is  enough,  is  it  not?"  laughed  Duprez.  "But,  after  all, 
what  matter?    It  will  be  novel  to  dine  with  a  mur — " 

"Stop!"  said  Philip,  fiercely,  with  so  much  authority  that 
the  sparkling  Pierre  was  startled.  "Call  no  man  by  such  a 
name  till  you  know  he  deserves  it.  If  Guldmar  was  suspected, 
as  you  say,  why  didn't  somebody  arrest  him  on  the  charge?" 

"Because,  ye  see,"  replied  Macfarlane,  "there  was  not  suffi- 
cient proof  to  warrant  such  a  proceeding.  Moreover,  the 
actual  meenister  of  the  parish  declared  it  was  a'  richt,  an' 
said  this  Guldmar  was  a  mon  o'  vera  queer  notions,  an,'  may 
be,  had  buried  his  wife  wi'  certain  ceremonies  peculiar  to  him- 
self—  What's  wrong  wi'  ye  now?" 

For  a  light  had  flashed  on  Errington's  mind,  and  with  the 
quick  comprehension  it  gave  him,  his  countenance  cleared. 
He  laughed. 

"That's  very  likely,"  he  said;  "Mr.  Guldmar  is  a  character. 
He  follows  the  faith  of  Odin,  and  not  even  Dyceworthy  can 
convert  him  to  Christianity!" 

Macfarlane  stared  with  a  sort  of  stupefied  solemnity. 


80  THELMA. 

"Mon!"  he  exclaimed,  "you  never  mean  to  say  there's  an 
actual  puir  human  creature  that  in  this  blessed,  enlightened 
nineteenth  century  of  ours  is  so  far  misguidit  as  to  worship 
the  fearfu'  gods  o'  the  Scandinavian  meethology?" 

"Ah!"  yawned  Lorimer,  "you  may  wonder  away,  Sandy, 
but  it's  true  enough!  Old  Guldmar  is  an  Odinite.  In  this 
blessed,  enlightened  nineteenth  century  of  ours,  when  Chris- 
tians amuse  themselves  by  despising  and  condemning  each 
other,  and  thus  upsetting  all  the  precepts  of  the  Master  they 
profess  to  follow,  there  is  actually  a  man  who  sticks  to  the 
traditions  of  his  ancestors.  Odd,  isn't  it?  In  this  delightful, 
intellectual  age,  when  more  than  half  of  us  are  discontented 
with  life  and  yet  don't  want  to  die,  there  is  a  fine  old  gentle- 
man, living  beyond  the  Arctic  circle,  who  is  perfectly  satisfied 
with  his  existence — not  only  that,  he  thinks  death  the  great- 
est glory  that  can  befall  him.  Comfortable  state  of  things 
altogether!    I'm  half  inclined  to  be  an  Odinite  too." 

Sandy  still  remained  lost  in  astonishment.  "Then  ye  don't 
believe  that  he  made  awa'  wi'  his  wife?"  he  inquired,  slowly. 

"Not  in  the  least!"  returned  Lorimer,  decidedly;  "neither 
will  you,  to-moiTOw,  when  you  see  him.  He's  a  great  deal 
better  up  in  literature  than  you  are,  my  boy,  I'd  swear,  judging 
from  the  books  he  has.  And  when  he  mentioned  his  wife,  as 
he  did  once,  you  could  see  in  his  face  he  had  never  done  her 
any  harm.    Besides,  his  daughter — " 

"Ah!  but  I  forgot,"  interposed  Duprez  again.  "The  daugh- 
ter, Thelma,  was  the  child  the  mysteriously  vanished  lady 
carried  in  her  arms,  wandering  with  it  all  about  the  woods  and 
hills.  After  her  disappearance,  another  thing  extraordinary 
happens.  The  child  also  disappears,  and  Monsieur  Guldmar 
lives  alone,  avoided  carefully  by  every  respectable  person. 
Suddenly  the  child  returns,  grown  to  be  nearly  a  woman — and, 
they  say,  lovely  to  an  almost  impossible  extreme.  She  lives 
with  her  father.  She,  like  her  strange  mother,  never  enters  a 
church,  town,  or  village — nowhere,  in  fact,  where  persons  are 
in  any  numbers.  Three  years  ago,  it  appears,  she  vanished 
again,  but  came  back  at  the  end  of  ten  months,  lovelier  than 
ever.  Since  then  she  has  remained  quiet — composed — but 
always  apart — she  may  disappear  at  any  moment.  Droll,  is 
it  not,  Errington?  and  the  reputation  she  has  is  natural!" 

"Pray  state  it,"  said  Philip,  with  freezing  coldness.  "The 
reputation  of  a  woman  is  nothing  nowadays.  Fair  game — go 
on!" 


THELMA.  81 

liut  his  face  was  pale,  and  his  eyes  blazed  dangerously. 
Almost  unconsciously  his  hand  toyed  with  the  rose  Thelma 
liad  given  him,  that  still  ornamented  his  button-hole. 

"Mon  Dieu!  cried  Duprez,  in  amazement.  "But  look  not 
at  me  like  that!  It  seems  to  displease  you,  to  put  you  en 
ficreur,  what  I  say!  It  is  not  my  story — it  is  not  I — I  know 
not  Mademoiselle  Guldmar.  But  as  her  beauty  is  considered 
superhuman,  they  say  it  is  the  devil  who  is  \\sx parfumenr,  her 
coiffeur y  and  who  sees  after  her  complexion;  in  brief,  she  is 
thought  to  be  a  witch  in  full  practice,  dangerous  to  life  and 
Hmb." 

Errington  laughed  loudly,  he  was  so  much  relieved. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  said,  with  light  contempt.  "By  Jove! 
what  a  pack  of  fools  they  must  be  about  here — ugly  fools  too, 
if  they  think  beauty  is  a  sign  of  witchcraft.  I  wonder  Dycc- 
worthy  isn't  scared  out  of  his  skin  if  he  positively  thinks  the 
so-called  witch  is  setting  her  cap  at  him." 

"Ah,  but  he  means  to  convairt  her,"  said  Macfarlane,  seri- 
ously. "To  draw  the  evil  oot  o'  her,  as  it  were.  He  said  he 
wad  do't  by  fair  means  or  foul." 

Something  in  these  latter  words  struck  Lorimer,  for,  rais- 
ing himself  in  his  seat,  he  asked:  "Surely  Mr.  Dyceworthy, 
with  all  his  stupidity,  doesn't  carry  it  so  far  as  to  believe  in 
witchcraft?" 

"Oh,  indeed  he  does,"  exclaimed  Duprez;  "he  believes  in 
it  a  la  lettre!  He  has  Bible  authority  for  his  belief.  He  is  a 
very  firm — firmest  when  drunk!"    And  he  laughed  gayly. 

Errington  muttered  something  not  very  flattering  to  Mr. 
Dyce worthy's  intelligence,  which  escaped  the  hearing  of  his 
friends;  then  he  said: 

"Come  along,  all  of  you,  down  into  the  saloon.  We  want 
something  to  eat.  Let  the  Guldmars  alone;  I'm  not  a  bit 
sorry  I've  asked  them  to  come  to-morrow.  I  believe  you'll 
all  like  them  immensely." 

They  all  descended  the  stairway  leading  to  the  lower  part 
of  the  yacht,  and  Macfarlane  asked,  as  he  followed  his  host: 

"Is  the  lass  vera  bonny,  did  ye  say  ?" 

"Benny's  not  the  word  for  it  this  time,"  said  Lorimer, 
coolly  answering  instead  of  Errington.  "Miss  Guldmar  is  a 
magnificent  woman.  You  never  saw  such  a  one,  Sandy,  my 
boy;  she'll  make  you  sing  small  with  one  look;  she'll  wither 
you  up  into  a  kippered  herring!     And  as  for  you,  Duprez," 

6 


82  THELMA. 

and  he  regarded  the  little  Frenchman  critically,  "let  me  see- 


you  may  possibly  reach  up  to  her  shoulder — certainly  not  be- 
yond it." 

''Fas possible!"  cried  Duprez.    "Mademoiselle  is  a  giantess." 

"She  needn't  be  a  giantess  to  overtop  you,  mon  ami," 
laughed  Lorimer,  with  a  lazy  shrug.  "By  Jove,  I  am  sleepy, 
Errington,  old  boy;  are  we  never  going  to  bed?  It's  no  good 
waiting  till  it's  dark  here,  you  know." 

"Have  something  first,"  said  Sir  Philip,  seating  himself  at 
the  saloon  table,  where  his  steward  had  laid  out  a  tasty  cold 
collation.  "We've  had  a  good  deal  of  climbing  about  and 
rowing;  it's  taken  it  out  of  us  a  little." 

Thus  hospitably  adjured,  they  took  their  places,  and  man- 
aged to  dispose  of  an  excellent  supper.  The  meal  concluded, 
Duprez  helped  himself  to  a  tiny  liqueur  glass  of  Chartreuse,  as 
a  wind-up  to  the  exertions  of  the  day,  a  mild  luxury  in  which 
the  others  joined  him,  with  the  exception  of  Macfarlane,  who 
was  wont  to  declare  that  a  "mon  without  his  whusky  was  nae 
mon  at  a',"  and  who,  therefore,  persisted  in  burning  up  his 
interior  mechanism  with  alcohol,  in  spite  of  the  doctrines  of 
hygiene,  and  was  now  absorbed  in  the  work  of  mixing  his 
lemon,  sugar,  hot  water,  and  poison — his  usual  preparation 
for  a  night's  rest. 

Lorimer,  usually  conversational,  watched  him  in  abstracted 
silence.  Eallied  on  this  morose  humor,  he  rose,  shook  him- 
self like  a  retriever,  yawned,  and  sauntered  to  the  piano  that 
occupied  a  dim  corner  of  the  saloon,  and  began  to  play  with 
that  delicate,  subtle  touch  which,  though  it  does  not  always 
mark  the  brilliant  pianist,  distinguishes  the  true  lover  of 
music,  to  whose  ears  a  rough  thump  on  the  instrument  or  a 
false  note  would  be  most  exquisite  agony.  Lorimer  had  no 
pretense  to  musical  talent;  when  asked  he  confessed  he  could 
"strum  a  little,"  and  he  hardly  seemed  to  see  the  evident 
wonder  and  admiration  he  awakened  in  the  minds  of  many  to 
whom  such  "strumming"  as  his  was  infinitely  more  delightful 
than  more  practiced,  finished  playing.  Just  now  he  seemed 
undecided — he  commenced  a  dainty  little  prelude  of  Chopin's, 
then  broke  suddenly  off,  and  wandered  into  another_  strain, 
wild,  pleading,  pitiful  and  passionate — a  melody  so  weird  and 
dreamy  that  even  the  stolid  Macfarlane  paused  in  his  toddy- 
sipping,  and  Duprez  looked  round  in  some  wonderment. 

"Comme  c'  esfieau,  ca!"  he  murmured. 


THELMA.  83 

Errington  said  nothing;  he  recognized  the  tune  as  that 
which  Thelma  had  sung  at  her  spinning-wheel,  and  his  bold 
bright  eyes  grew  pensive  and  soft  as  the  picture  of  the  fair 
face  and  form  rose  up  again  before  his  mind.  Absorbed  in  a 
reverie,  he  almost  started  when  Lorimer  ceased  playing,  and 
said,  lightly: 

"By  by,  boys!  I'm  off  to  bed!  Phil,  don't  wake  me  so 
abominably  early  as  you  did  this  morning.  If  you  do,  friend- 
ship can  hold  out  no  longer — we  must  part." 

"All  right!"  laughed  Errington,  good-humoredly,  watching 
his  friend  as  he  sauntered  out  of  the  saloon;  then  seeing  Du- 
prez  and  Macfarlane  rise  from  the  table,  he  added,  cour- 
teously, "Don't  hurry  away  on  Lorimer's  account,  you  two. 
I'm  not  in  the  least  sleepy — I'll  sit  up  with  you  to  any  hour." 

"It  is  droll  to  go  to  bed  in  broad  daylight,"  said  Duprez. 
"But  it  must  be  done.  Cher  Philippe,  your  eyes  are  heavy. 
'To  bed,  to  bed,'  as  the  excellent  Madame  Macbeth  says.  Ah! 
quelle  femme!  What  an  exciting  wife  she  was  for  a  man! 
Come,  let  us  follow  our  dear  Lorimer — his  music  was  delicious. 
Good-night,  or  good-morning.  I  know  not  which  it  is  in  this 
strange  land  where  the  sun  shines  always.    It  is  confusing." 

They  shook  hands  and  separated.  Errington,  however,  un- 
able to  compose  his  mind  to  rest,  went  into  his  cabin  merely 
to  come  out  of  it  again  and  betake  himself  to  the  deck,  where 
he  decided  to  walk  up  and  down  till  he  felt  sleepy.  He  wished 
to  be  alone  with  his  own  thoughts  for  awhile — to  try  and  re- 
solve the  meaning  of  this  strange  new  emotion  that  possessed 
him — a  feeling  that  was  half  pleasing,  half  painful,  and  that 
certainly  moved  him  to  a  sort  of  shame.  A  man,  if  he  be 
strong  and  healthy,  is  always  more  or  less  ashamed  when  love, 
with  a  single  effort,  proves  him  to  be  weaker  than  a  blade  of 
grass  swaying  in  the  wind.  What!  all  his  dignity,  all  his 
resoluteness,  all  his  authority  swept  down  by  the  light  touch 
of  a  mere  willow  wand?  For  the  very  sake  of  his  own  man- 
hood and  self-respect,  he  can  not  help  but  be  ashamed.  It  is  as 
though  a  little  nude,  laughing  child  mocked  at  a  lion's 
strength  and  made  him  a  helpless  prisoner  with  a  fragile  daisy 
chain.  So  the  god  Eros  begins  his  battles,  which  end  in  per- 
petual victory — first  fear  and  shame — then  desire  and  pas- 
sion— then  conquest  and  possession.  And  afterward?  Ah — 
afterward  the  pagan  deity  is  powerless — a  higher  God,  a  grand- 
er force,  a  nobler  creed  must  carry  love  to  its  supreme  and  best 
fulfillment. 


84  THELMA. 


CHAPTEK  VIII. 

Le  vent  qui  vient  a  travers  la  montagne 
M'a  rendu  fou! 

VicTOB  Hugo. 

It  was  half  an  hour  past  midnight.  Sir  PhiHp  was  left  in 
absolute  solitude  to  enjoy  his  meditative  stroll  on  deck,  for 
the  full  radiance  of  light  that  streamed  over  the  sea  and  land 
was  too  clear  and  brilliant  to  necessitate  the  attendance  of  any 
of  the  sailors  for  the  purpose  of  guarding  the  "Eulalie."  She 
was  safely  anchored  and  distinctly  visible  to  all  boats  or 
fishing  craft  crossing  the  fjord,  so  that  unless  a  sudden  gale 
should  blow,  which  did  not  seem  probable  in  the  present  state 
of  the  weather,  there  was  nothing  for  the  men  to  do  that  need 
deprive  them  of  their  lawful  repose.  Errington  paced  up  and 
down  slowly,  his  yachting  shoes  making  no  noise  even  as  they 
left  no  scratch  on  the  spotless  white  deck,  that  shone  in  the 
night  sunshine  like  polished  silver.  The  fjord  was  very  calm 
— on  one  side  it  gleamed  like  a  pool  of  golden  oil  in  which  the 
outline  of  the  "Eulalie"  was  precisely  traced,  her  delicate 
masts  and  spars  and  drooping  flag  being  drawn  in  black  lines 
on  the  yellow  water  as  though  with  a  finely  pointed  pencil. 
There  was  a  curious  light  in  the  western  sky;  a  thick  bank  of 
clouds,  dusky  brown  in  color,  were  swept  together  and  piled 
one  above  the  other  in  mountainous  ridges  that  rose  up  per- 
pendicularly from  the  very  edge  of  the  sea-line,  while  over 
their  dark  summits  a  glimpse  of  the  sun,  like  a  giant's  eye, 
looked  forth,  darting  dazzling  descending  rays  through  the 
sullen  smoke-like  masses,  tinging  them  with  metallic  green 
and  copper  hues  as  brilliant  and  sifting  as  the  bristhng  points 
of  lifted  spears.  Away  to  the  south  a  solitary  wreath  of  pur- 
ple vapor  floated  slowly  as  though  lost  from  some  great  moun- 
tain height,  and  through  its  faint,  half-disguising  veil  the  pale 
moon  peered  sorrowfully,  like  a  dying  prisoner  lamenting  joy 
long  past,  but  unforgotten. 

A  solemn  silence  reigned,  and  Errington,  watching  the  sea 
and  sky,  grew  more  and  more  absorbed  and  serious.  The 
scornful  words  of  the  proud  old  Olaf  Guldmar  rankled  in  his 


THELMA.  85 

mind  and  stung  him.  "An  idle  trifler  with  time — an  aimless 
wanderer!"  Bitter,  but,  after  all,  true.  He  looked  back  on 
his  life  with  a  feeling  akin  to  contempt.  What  had  he  done 
that  was  at  all  worth  doing?  He  had  seen  to  the  proper 
management  of  his  estates — well!  any  one  with  a  grain  of 
self-respect  and  love  of  independence  would  do  the  same.  He 
had  traveled  and  amused  himself — he  had  studied  languages 
and  literature — he  had  made  many  friends,  but  after  all  said 
and  done,  the  bonde's  cutting  observations  had  described  him 
correctly  enough.  The  do-nothing,  care-nothing  tendency, 
common  to  the  very  wealthy  in  this  age,  had  crept  upon  him 
unconsciously;  the  easy,  cool,  indifferent  nonchalance  com- 
mon to  men  of  his  class  and  breeding  was  habitual  with  him, 
and  he  had  never  thought  it  worth  while  to  exert  his  dormant 
abilities.  Why,  then,  should  he  now  begin  to  think  it  was 
time  to  reform  aM  this — to  rouse  himself  to  an  effort — to  gain 
for  himself  some  honor,  some  distinction,  some  renown  that 
should  mark  him  out  as  different  to  other  men?  why  was  he 
suddenly  seized  with  an  insatiate  desire  to  be  something  more 
than  a  mere  "mushroom  knight,  a  fungus  of  nobility"?  why, 
if  not  to  make  himself  worthy  of — ah!  There  he  had  struck  a 
suggestive  key-note.  Worthy  of  what?  of  whom?  here  was 
no  one  in  all  the  world,  excepting  perhaps  Lorimer,  who  cared 
what  became  of  Sir  Philip  Errington,  Baronet,  in  the  future, 
so  long  as  he  would,  for  the  present,  entertain  and  feast  his 
numerous  acquaintances  and  give  them  all  the  advantages, 
social  and  political,  his  wealth  could  so  easily  obtain.  Then 
why,  in  the  name  of  well-bred  indolence,  should  he  muse  with 
such  persistent  gloom  on  his  general  unworthiness  at  this  par- 
ticular moment?  Was  it  because  this  Norwegian  maiden's 
frand  blue  eyes  had  met  his  with  such  beautiful  trust  and 
candor? 

He  had  known  many  women,  queens  of  society,  titled  beau- 
ties, brilliant  actresses,  sirens  of  the  world  with  all  their 
witcheries  in  full  play,  and  he  had  never  lost  his  self-posses- 
sion or  his  heart;  with  the  loveliest  of  them  he  had  always 
felt  himself  master  of  the  situation,  knowing  that  in  their 
opinion  he  was  always  "a  catch,"  an  "eligible,"  and,  therefore, 
well  worth  winning.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  became  aware 
of  his  utter  insignificance — this  tall,  fair  goddess  knew  none 
of  the  social  slang — and  her  fair,  pure  face,  the  mirror  of 
a  fair,  pure  soul,  showed  that  the  "eligibility"  of  a  man  from 


86  THELMA. 

a  pecuniary  point  of  view  was  a  consideration  that  would 
never  present  itself  to  her  mind.  What  she  would  look  at 
would  be  the  man  himself — not  his  pocket.  And,  studied 
from  such  an  exceptional  height — a  height  seldom  climbed  by 
modern  marrying  women — Philip  felt  himself  unworthy.  It 
was  a  good  sign;  there  are  great  hopes  of  any  man  who  is 
honestly  dissatisfied  with  himself.  Folding  his  arms,  he 
leaned  idly  on  the  deck-rails  and  looked  gravely  and  musingly 
down  into  the  motionless  water,  where  the  varied  hues  of  the 
sky  were  clearly  mirrored,  when  a  slight  creaking,  cracking 
sound  was  heard,  as  of  some  obstacle  grazing  against  or 
bumping  the  side  of  the  yacht.  He  looked,  and  saw,  to  his 
surprise,  a  small  rowing  boat  close  under  the  gunwale,  so 
close  indeed  that  the  slow  motion  of  the  tide  heaved  it  every 
now  and  then  into  a  jerky  collision  with  the  lower  frame-work 
of  the  "Eulalie" — a  circumstance  which  explained  the  sound 
which  had  attracted  his  attention.  The  boat  was  not  unoccu- 
pied— there  was  some  one  in  it  lying  straight  across  the  seats, 
with  face  turned  upward  to  the  sky — and,  walking  noiselessly 
to  a  better  post  of  observation,  Errington's  heart  beat  with 
some  excitement  as  he  recognized  the  long,  fair,  unkempt 
locks  and  eccentric  attire  of  the  strange  personage  who  had 
confronted  him  in  the  cave — the  crazy  little  man  who  had 
called  himself  "Sigurd."  There  he  was,  beyond  a  doubt,  ly- 
ing flat  on  his  back  with  his  eyes  closed.  Asleep  or  dead?  He 
might  have  been  the  latter — his  thin  face  was  so  pale  and 
drawn — his  lips  were  so  set  and  colorless.  Errington,  aston- 
ished to  see  him  there,  called,  softly: 

"Sigurd!  Sigurd!"  There  was  no  answer.  Sigurd's  form 
seemed  inanimate — his  eyes  remained  fast  shut. 

"Is  he  in  a  trance?"  thought  Sir  Philip,  wonderingly;  "or 
has  he  fainted  from  some  physical  exhaustion?" 

He  called  again,  but  again  received  no  reply.  He  now  ob- 
served in  the  stern  of  the  boat  a  large  bunch  of  pansies,  dark 
as  velvet,  and  evidently  freshly  gathered — proving  that  Sigurd 
had  been  wandering  in  the  deep  valleys  and  on  the  sloping 
sides  of  the  hills,  where  these  flowers  may  be  frequently 
found  in  Norway  during  the  summer.  He  began  to  feel  rather 
uncomfortable,  as  he  watched  that  straight,  stiff  figure  in  the 
boat,  and  was  Just  about  to  swing  down  the  companion-ladder 
for  the  purpose  of  closer  inspection,  when  a  glorious  burst  of 
light  streamed  radiantly  over  the  fjord — the  sun  conquered 


THELMA.  87 

the  masses  of  dark  cloud  that  had  striven  to  conceal  his 
beauty — and  now,  like  a  warrior  clad  in  golden  armor,  sur- 
mounted and  trod  down  his  enemies,  shining  forth  in  all  his 
splendor.  With  that  rush  of  brilliant  effulgence,  the  appar- 
ently lifeless  Sigurd  stirred — he  opened  his  eyes,  and  as  they 
were  turned  upward,  he  naturally,  from  his  close  vicinity  to 
the  side  of  the  "Eulalie,"  met  Errington's  gaze  fixed  inquir- 
ingly and  somewhat  anxiously  upon  him.  He  sprung  up  with 
such  sudden  and  fierce  haste  that  his  frail  boat  rocked  danger- 
ously, and  Philip  involuntarily  cried  out: 

"Take  care!" 

Sigurd  stood  upright  in  his  swaying  skiff  and  laughed 
scornfully. 

"Take  care!"  he  echoed,  derisively.  "It  is  you  who  should 
take  care!  You — poor  miserable  moth  on  the  edge  of  a  mad 
storm!  It  is  you  to  fear — not  I!  See  how  the  light  rains  over 
the  broad  sky.  All  for  me!  Yes,  all  the  light,  all  the  glory 
for  me;  all  the  darkness,  all  the  shame  for  you!" 

Errington  listened  to  these  ravings  with  an  air  of  patience 
and  pitying  gentleness;  then  he  said,  with  perfect  coolness: 

"You  are  quite  right,  Sigurd!  You  are  always  right,  I  am 
sure.  Come  up  here  and  see  me;  I  won't  hurt  you!  Come 
along!" 

The  friendly  tone  and  gentle  manner  appeared  to  soothe  the 
unhappy  dwarf,  for  he  stared  doubtfully,  then  smiled — and 
finally,  as  though  acting  under  a  spell,  he  took  up  an  oar  and 
propelled  himself  skillfully  enough  to  the  gangway,  where 
Errington  let  down  the  ladder  and  with  his  own  hand  assisted 
his  visitor  to  mount,  not  forgetting  to  fasten  the  boat  safely 
to  the  steps  as  he  did  so.  Once  on  deck,  Sigurd  gazed  about 
him  perplexedly.  He  had  brought  his  bunch  of  pansies  with 
him,  and  he  fingered  their  soft  leaves  thoughtfully.  Suddenly 
his  eyes  flashed. 

"You  are  alone  here?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

Fearing  to  scare  his  strange  guest  by  the  mention  of  his 
companions,  Errington  answered  simply: 

"Yes,  quite  alone  Just  now,  Sigurd." 

Sigurd  took  a  step  closer  toward  him.  "Are  you  not  afraid  ?" 
he  said,  in  an  awe-struck,  solemn  voice. 

Sir  PhiHp  smiled.  "I  never  was  afraid  of  anything  in  my 
life!"  he  answered. 

The  dwarf  eyed  him  keenlv-  "You  are  not  afraid,"  he  went 
on,  "that  I  shall  kill  you?" 


88  THELMA. 

"Not  in  the  least/'  returned  Errington,  calmly.  "You  would 
not  do  anything  so  foolish,  my  friend." 

Sigurd  laughed.  "Ha,  ha !  you  call  me  'friend.'  You  think 
that  word  a  safeguard!  I  tell  you,  no!  There  are  no  friends 
now;  the  world  is  a  great  field  of  battle — each  man  fights  the 
other.  There  is  no  peace — none  anywhere!  The  wind  fights 
with  the  forests;  you  can  hear  them  slashing  and  slaying  all 
night  long — when  it  is  night — the  long,  long  night!  The  sun 
fights  with  the  sky,  the  light  with  the  dark,  and  life  with 
death.  It  is  all  a  bitter  quarrel;  none  are  satisfied,  none  shall 
know  friendship  any  more;  it  is  too  late!  We  can  not  be 
friends!" 

"Well,  have  it  your  own  way,"  said  Philip  good-naturedly, 
wishing  that  Lorimer  were  awake  to  interview  this  strange 
specimen  of  human  wit  gone  astray;  "we'll  fight  if  you  like. 
Anything  to  please  you!" 

"We  are  fighting,"  said  Sigurd,  with  intense  passion  in  his 
voice.  "You  may  not  know  it;  but  I  know  it!  I  have  felt  the 
thrust  of  your  sword;  it  has  crossed  mine.  Stay!"  and  his 
eyes  grew  vague  and  dreamy.  "Why  was  I  sent  to  seek  you 
out — let  me  think — let  me  think!" 

And  he  seated  himself  forlornly  on  one  of  the  deck  chairs 
and  seemed  painfully  endeavoring  to  put  his  scattered  ideas 
in  order.  Errington  studied  him  with  a  gentle  forbearance; 
inwardly  he  was  very  curious  to  know  whether  this  Sigurd 
had  any  connection  with  the  Guldmars,  but  he  refrained  from 
asking  too  many  questions.    He  simply  said,  in  a  cheery  tone: 

"Yes,  Sigurd — why  did  you  come  to  see  me?  I'm  glad  you 
did;  it's  very  kind  of  you,  but  I  don't  think  you  even  know 
my  name." 

To  his  surprise,  Sigurd  looked  up  with  a  more  settled  and 
resolved  expression  of  face,  and  answered  almost  as  connected- 
ly as  any  sane  man  could  have  done. 

"I  know  your  name  very  well,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  composed 
manner.  "You  are  Sir  Philip  Errington,  a  rich  English  noble- 
man. Fate  led  you  to  her  grave — a  grave  that  no  strange 
feet  have  ever  passed,  save  yours — and  so  I  know  you  are  the 
man  for  whom  her  spirit  has  waited — she  has  brought  you 
hither.  How  foolish  to  think  she  sleeps  under  the  stone,  wheu 
she  is  always  awake  and  busy — always  at  work  opposing  me! 
Yes,  though  I  pray  her  to  lie  still,  slie  will  not!" 

His  voice  grew  wild  again,  and  Philip  asked,  quietly: 

"Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  Sigurd!" 


THELMA.  89 

His  steady  tone  seemed  to  have  some  compelling  influence 
on  the  confused  mind  of  the  half-witted  creature,  who  an- 
swered, readily  and  at  once: 

"Of  whom  should  I  speak  hut  Thelma?  Thelma,  the  beau- 
tiful rose  of  the  northern  forest — Thelma — " 

He  broke  off  abruptly  with  a  long  shuddering  sigh,  and 
rocking  himself  drearily  to  and  fro  gazed  wistfully  out  to  the 
sea.  Errington  hazarded  a  guess  as  to  the  purpose  of  that 
coffin  hidden  in  the  shell  cavern. 

"Do  you  mean  Thelma  living — or  Thelma  dead?" 

"Both,"  answered  Sigurd,  promptly.  "They  are  one  and 
the  same — you  can  not  part  them.  Mother  and  child — rose 
and  rosebud!  One  walks  the  earth  with  the  step  of  a  queen, 
the  other  floats  in  the  air  like  a  silvery  cloud;  but  I  see  them 
join  and  embrace  and  melt  into  each  other's  arms  till  they 
unite  in  one  form  fairer  than  the  beauty  of  angels!  And  you 
— you  know  this  as  well  as  I  do — you  have  seen  Thelma,  you 
have  kissed  the  cup  of  friendship  with  her;  but  remember! — 
not  with  me — not  with  me!" 

He  started  from  his  seat,  and,  running  close  up  to  Errington, 
laid  one  meager  hand  on  his  chest. 

"How  strong  you  are — how  broad  and  brave!"  he  exclaim- 
ed, with  a  sort  of  childish  admiration.  "And  can  you  not  be 
generous  too?" 

Errington  looked  down  upon  him  compassionately.  He  had 
learned  enough  from  his  incoherent  talk  to  clear  up  what  had 
seemed  a  mystery.  The  scandalous  reports  concerning  Olaf 
Guldmar  were  incorrect — he  had  evidently  laid  the  remains  of 
his  wife  in  the  shell-cavern,  for  some  reason  connected  with 
his  religious  belief,  and  Thelma's  visits  to  the  sacred  spot 
were  now  easy  of  comprehension.  No  doubt  it  was  she  who 
placed  fresh  flowers  there  every  day,  and  kept  the  little  lamp 
burning  before  the  crucifix,  as  a  sign  of  the  faith  her  departed 
mother  had  professed,  and  which  she  herself  followed.  But 
who  was  Sigurd,  and  what  was  he  to  the  Guldmars?  Thinking 
this,  he  replied  to  the  dwarfs  question  by  a  counter-inquiry. 

"How  shall  I  be  generous,  Sigurd?  Tell  me!  What  can  I 
do  to  please  you?" 

Sigurd's  wild  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure. 

"Do!"  he  cried.  "You  can  go  away,  swiftly  swiftly  over  the 
seas,  and  the  Alten  Fjord  need  know  you  no  more!  Spread 
your  white  sails!"  and  he  pointed  excitedly  up  to  the  tall  taper- 


90  THELMA. 

ing  masts  of  the  "Eulalie."  "You  are  king  here.  Command 
and  you  are  obeyed!  Go  from  us,  go!  What  is  there  here  to 
delay  you?  Our  mountains  are  dark  and  gloomy — the  fjelds 
are  wild  and  desolate — there  are  rocks,  glaciers  and  shrieking 
torrents  that  hiss  like  serpents  gliding  into  the  sea!  Oh, 
there  must  be  fairer  lands  than  this  one — lands  where  ocean 
and  sky  are  like  twin  jewels  set  in  one  ring — where  there  are 
sweet  flowers  and  fruits  and  bright  eyes  to  smile  on  you  all 
day — yes!  for  you  are  as  a  god  in  your  strength  and  beauty — 
no  woman  will  be  cruel  to  you!  Ah!  say  you  will  go  away!" 
and  Sigurd's  face  was  transfigured  into  a  sort  of  pained 
beauty  as  he  made  his  appeal.  "That  is  what  I  came  to  seek 
you  for — to  ask  you  to  set  sail  quickly  and  go,  for  why  should 
you  wish  to  destroy  me?  I  have  done  you  no  harm  as  yet.  Go! 
— and  Odin  himself  shall  follow  your  path  with  blessings!" 

He  paused  almost  breathless  with  his  own  earnest  plead- 
ing. Errington  was  silent.  He  considered  the  request  a  mere 
proof  of  the  poor  creature's  disorder.  The  very  idea  that- 
Sigurd  seemed  to  entertain  of  his  doing  him  any  harm  showed 
a  reasonless  terror  and  foreboding  that  was  simply  to  be  set 
down  as  caused  by  his  unfortunate  mental  condition.  To  such 
an  appeal  there  could  be  no  satisfactory  reply. 

To  sail  away  from  the  Alten  Fjord  and  its  now  most  fasci- 
nating attractions,  because  a  madman  asked  him  to  do  so,  was 
a  proposition  impossible  of  acceptance,  so  Sir  Philip  said 
nothing.  Sigurd,  however,  watching  his  face  intently,  saw, 
or  thought  he  saw,  a  look  of  resolution  in  the  Englishman's 
clear,  deep  gray  eyes — and  with  the  startling  quickness  com- 
mon to  many  whose  brains,  like  musical  instruments,  are 
jarred  yet  not  quite  unstrung,  he  grasped  the  meaning  of  that 
expression  instantly. 

"Ah!  cruel  and  traitorous!"  he  exclaimed,  fiercely.  "You 
will  not  go;  you  are  resolved  to  tear  my  heart  out  for  your 
sport!  I  have  pleaded  with  you  as  one  pleads  with  a  king, 
and  all  in  vain — all  in  vain!  You  will  not  go?  Listen,  see 
what  you  will  do,"  and  he  held  up  the  bunch  of  purple  pan- 
sies,  while  his  voice  sunk  to  an  almost  feeble  faintness.  "Look!" 
and  he  fingered  the  flowers,  "look! — they  are  dark  and  soft  as 
a  purple  sky — cool  and  dewy  and  fresh;  they  are  the  thoughts 
of  Thelma;  such  thoughts!  So  wise  and  earnest,  so  pure  and 
full  of  tender  shadows! — no  hand  has  grasped  them  rudely,  no 
rough  touch  has  spoiled  their  smoothness!     They  open  full- 


THELMA.  91 

faced  to  the  sky,  they  never  droop  or  languish;  they  have  no 
secrets,  save  the  marvel  of  their  beauty.  Now  you  have  come, 
you  will  have  no  pity — one  by  one  you  will  gather  and  play 
with  her  thoughts  as  though  they  were  these  blossoms — your 
burning  hand  will  mar  their  color — they  will  wither  and  furl 
up  and  die,  all  of  them — and  you — what  will  you  care?  Noth- 
ing! no  man  ever  cares  for  a  flower  that  is  withered — not  even 
though  his  own  hand  slew  it." 

The  intense  melancholy  that  vibrated  through  Sigurd's 
voice  touched  his  listener  profoundly.  Dimly  he  guessed 
that  the  stricken  soul  before  him  had  formed  the  erroneous 
idea  that  he,  Errington,  had  come  to  do  some  great  wrong  to 
Thelma  or  her  belongings,  and  he  pitied  the  poor  creature  for 
his  foolish  self-torture. 

"Listen  to  me,  Sigurd,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  imperative- 
ness; "I  can  not  promise  you  to  go  away,  but  I  can  promise 
that  I  will  do  no  harm  to  you  or  to — to — Thelma.  Will  that 
content  you?" 

Sigurd  smiled  vacantly  and  shook  his  head.  He  looked  at 
the  pansies  wistfully  and  laid  them  down  very  gently  on  one 
of  the  deck  benches. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said  in  a  faint  voice:  "she  is  calling  me." 

"Who  is  calling  you?"  demanded  Errington,  astonished. 

"She  is,"  persisted  Sigurd,  walking  steadily  to  the  gang- 
way. "I  can  hear  her!  There  are  the  roses  to  water,  and  the 
doves  to  feed,  and  many  other  things."  He  looked  steadily 
at  Sir  Philip,  who,  seeing  he  was  bent  on  departure,  assisted 
him  to  descend  the  companion-ladder  into  his  little  boat. 
"You  are  sure  you  will  not  sail  away?" 

Errington  balanced  himself  lightly  on  the  ladder  and  smiled. 

"I  am  sure,  Sigurd!  I  have  no  wish  to  sail  away.  Are  you 
all  right  there?" 

He  spoke  cheerily,  feeling  in  his  own  mmd  that  it  was 
scarcely  safe  for  a  madman  to  be  quite  alone  in  a  cockle-shell 
of  a  boat  on  a  deep  fjord,  the  shores  of  which  were  indented 
with  dangerous  rocks  as  sharp  as  the  bristling  teeth  of  fabled 
sea-monsters,  but  Sigurd  answered  him  almost  contemptu- 
ously. 

"All  right!"  he  echoed.  "That  is  what  the  English  say 
always.  All  right!  As  if  it  were  ever  wrong  with  me  and 
the  sea!  We  know  each  other— we  do  each  other  no  harm. 
You  may  die  on  the  sea,  but  I  shall  not!  No,  there  is  another 
way  to  Valhalla!" 


92  THELMA. 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  there  are  no  end  of  ways/'  said  Erring- 
ton,  good-temperedly,  still  poising  himself  on  the  ladder,  and 
holding  on  to  the  side  of  his  yacht,  as  he  watched  his  late 
visitor  take  the  oars  and  move  off.  "Good-bye,  Sigurd!  Take 
care  of  yourself!    Hope  I  shall  see  you  again  soon." 

But  Sigurd  replied  not.  Bending  to  the  oars,  he  rowed 
swiftly  and  strongly,  and  Sir  Philip,  pulling  up  the  ladder  and 
closing  the  gangway,  saw  the  little  skiff  flying  over  the  water 
like  a  bird  in  the  direction  of  the  Guldmars'  landing-place. 
He  wondered  again  and  again  what  relationship,  if  any,  this 
half-crazed  being  bore  to  the  bonde  and  his  daughter.  That  he 
knew  all  about  them  was  pretty  evident;  but  how?  Catching 
sight  of  the  pansies  left  on  the  deck  bench,  Errington  took 
them,  and,  descending  to  the  saloon,  set  them  on  the  table  in  a 
tumbler  of  water. 

"Thelma's  thoughts,  the  poor  little  fellow  called  them,"  he 
mused,  with  a  smile.  "A  pretty  fancy  of  his,  and  linked  with 
the  crazy  imaginings  of  Ophelia,  too.  'There's  pansies,  that's 
for  thoughts,'  she  said,  but  Sigurd's  idea  is  different;  he  be- 
lieves they  are  Thelma's  own  thoughts  in  flower.  'No  rough 
touch  has  spoiled  their  smoothness,'  he  declared;  he's  right 
there,  I'm  sure.  And  shall  I  ruffle  the  sweet  leaves?  shall  I 
crush  the  tender  petals?  or  shall  I  simply  transform  them 
from  pansies  into  roses — from  the  dream  of  love  into  love 
itself?" 

His  eyes  softened  as  he  glanced  at  the  drooping  rose  he 
wore,  which  Thelma  herself  had  given  him,  and  as  he  went  to 
his  sleeping  cabin,  he  carefully  detached  it  from  his  button- 
hole, and  taking  down  a  book — one  which  he  greatly  prized, 
because  it  had  belonged  to  his  mother — he  prepared  to  press 
the  flower  within  its  leaves.  It  was  the  "Imitation  of  Christ," 
bound  quaintly  and  fastened  with  silver  clasps,  and  as  he  was 
about  to  lay  his  fragrant  trophy  on  the  first  page  that  opened 
naturally  of  itself,  he  glanced  at  the  words  that  there  pre- 
sented themselves  to  his  eyes. 

"Nothing  is  sweeter  than  love,  nothing  stronger,  nothing 
higher,  nothing  wider,  nothing  more  pleasant,  nothing  fuller 
or  better  in  heaven  or  in  earth!"  And  with  a  smile,  and  a 
warmer  flush  of  color  than  usual  on  his  handsome  face,  he 
touched  the  rose  lightly  yet  tenderly  with  his  lips  and  shut  it 
reverently  within  its  sacred  resting-place. 


THELMA.  93 


CPIAPTEK  IX. 

Our  manners  are  infinitely  corrupted,  and  wonderfully  incline  to 
the  worse;  of  our  customs,  there  are  many  barbarous  and  mon- 
strous.— Montaigne. 

The  next  day  was  very  warm  and  bright,  and  that  pious 
Lutheran  divine,  the  Eev.  Charles  Dyeeworthy,  was  seriously 
incumbered  by  his  own  surplus  flesh  material,  as  he  wearily 
rowed  himself  across  the  fjord  toward  Olaf  Guldmar's  private 
pier.  As  the  perspiration  bedewed  his  brow,  he  felt  that 
Heaven  had  dealt  with  him  somewhat  too  liberally  in  the  way 
of  fat — he  was  provided  too  amply  with  it  ever  to  excel  as  an 
oarsman.  The  sun  was  burning  hot,  the  water  was  smooth 
as  oil,  and  very  weighty — it  seemed  to  resist  every  stroke  of  his 
dumsily  wielded  blades.  Altogether  it  was  hard,  uncongenial 
work — and,  being  rendered  somewhat  flabby  and  nerveless  by 
his  previous  evening's  carouse  with  Macfarlane's  whisky,  Mr. 
Dyeeworthy  was  in  a  plaintive  and  injured  frame  of  mind. 
He  was  bound  on  a  mission — a  holy  and  edifying  errand, 
which  would  have  elevated  any  minister  of  his  particular  sect. 
He  had  found  a  crucifix  with  the  name  of  Thelma  engraved 
thereon — he  was  now  about  to  return  it  to  the  evident  rightful 
owner,  and  in  returning  it  he  purposed  denouncing  it  as  an 
emblem  of  the  "Scarlet  Woman,  that  sitteth  on  the  Seven 
Hills,"  and  threatening  all  those  who  dared  to  hold  it  sacred 
as  doomed  to  eternal  torture,  "where  the  worm  dieth  not." 
He  had  thought  over  all  he  meant  to  say;  he  had  planned 
several  eloquent  and  roimded  sentences,  some  of  which  he 
murmured  placidly  to  himself  as  he  propelled  his  slow  boat 
along. 

"Yea!"  he  observed,  in  a  mild  sotto  voce — "ye  shall  be  cut 
off  root  and  branch!  Ye  shall  be  scorched  even  as  stubble — 
and  utterly  destroyed."  Here  he  paused  and  mopped  his 
streaming  forehead  with  his  clean,  perfumed  handkerchief. 
"Yea!"  he  resumed,  peacefully,  "the  worshipers  of  idolatrous 
images  are  accursed;  they  shall  have  ashes  for  food  and  gall 
for  drink!  Let  them  turn  and  repent  themselves,  lest  the 
wrath  of  God  consume  them  as  straw  whirled  on  the  wind. 


94  THELMA. 

Kepent! — or  ye  shall  be  cast  into  everlasting  fire.  Beauty 
shall  avail  not,  learning  shall  avail  not,  meekness  shall  avail 
not;  for  the  fire  of  hell  is  a  searching,  endless,  destroying — " 
here  Mr.  Dyceworthy,  by  plunging  one  oar  with  too  much 
determination  into  the  watery  depths,  caught  a  crab,  as  the 
saying  is,  and  fell  violently  backward  in  a  somewhat  undigni- 
fied posture.  Recovering  himself  slowly,  he  looked  about 
him  in  a  bewildered  way,  and  for  the  first  time  noticed  the 
vacant,  solitary  appearance  of  the  fjord.  Some  object  was 
missing;  he  realized  what  it  was  immediately — the  English 
yacht  "Eulalie"  was  gone  from  her  point  of  anchorage. 

"Dear  me!"  said  Mr.  Dyceworthy,  half  aloud,  "what  a  very 
sudden  departure!  I  wonder  now  if  those  young  men  have 
gone  for  good,  or  whether  they  are  coming  back  again  ?  Pleas- 
ant fellows — very  pleasant!  flippant,  perhaps,  but  pleasant." 

And  he  smiled  benevolently.  He  had  no  remembrance  of 
what  had  occurred  after  he  had  emptied  young  Macfarlane's 
flask  of  Glenlivet;  he  had  no  idea  that  he  had  been  almost 
carried  from  his  garden  into  his  parlor,  and  there  flung  on  the 
sofa  and  left  to  sleep  off  the  effects  of  his  strong  tipple;  least 
of  all  did  he  dream  that  he  had  betrayed  any  of  his  inten- 
tions toward  Thelma  Guldmar,  or  given  his  religious  opinions 
with  such  free  and  undisguised  candor.  Blissfully  ignorant  on 
these  points,  he  resumed  his  refractory  oars,  and  after  nearly 
an  hour  of  laborious  effort  succeeded  at  last  in  reaching  his 
destination.  Arrived  at  the  little  pier,  he  fastened  up  his 
boat,  and  with  the  lofty  air  of  a  thoroughly  moral  man,  he 
walked  deliberately  up  to  the  door  of  the  bonde's  house.  Con- 
trary to  custom,  it  was  closed,  and  the  place  seemed  strangely 
silent  and  deserted.  The  afternoon  heat  was  so  great  that  the 
song-birds  were  hushed  and  in  hiding  under  the  cool  green 
leaves — the  clambering  roses  round  the  porch  hung  down  their 
bright  heads  for  sheer  faintness — and  the  only  sounds  to  be 
heard  were  the  subdued  coo-cooing  of  the  doves  on  the  roof, 
and  the  soft  trickling  rush  of  a  little  mountain  stream  that 
flowed  through  the  grounds.  Somewhat  surprised,  though 
not  abashed,  at  the  evident  "not-at-home"  look  of  the  farm- 
house, Mr.  Dyceworthy  rapped  loudly  at  the  rough  oaken  door 
with  his  knuckles,  there  being  no  such  modern  convenience 
as  a  bell  or  a  knocker.  He  waited  some  time  before  he  was 
answered,  repeating  his  summons  violently  at  frequent  inter- 
vals, and  swearing  irreligiously  under  his  breath  as  he  did  so. 


THELMA.  95 

But  at  last  the  door  was  flung  sharply  open,  and  the  tangle- 
haired,  rosy-cheeked  liritta  confronted  him  with  an  aspect 
which  was  by  no  means  encouraging  or  polite.  Her  round 
blue  eyes  sparkled  saucily,  and  she  placed  her  bare,  plump 
red  arms,  wet  with  recent  soap-suds,  akimbo  on  her  sturdy 
little  liips,  with  an  air  that  was  decidedly  impertinent. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?"  she  demanded,  with  rude  ab- 
ruptness. 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  regarded  her  in  speechless  dignity.  Vouch- 
safing no  reply,  he  attempted  to  pass  her  and  enter  the  house. 
But  Britta  settled  her  arms  more  defiantly  than  ever,  and  her 
voice  had  a  sharper  ring  as  she  said: 

"It's  no  use  your  coming  in!  There's  no  one  here  but  me. 
The  master  has  gone  out  for  the  day." 

"Young  woman,"  returned  Mr.  Dyceworthy,  with  polite 
severity,  "I  regret  to  see  that  your  manners  stand  in  sore  need 
of  improvement.  Your  master's  absence  is  of  no  importance 
to  me.    It  is  with  the  Froken  Thelma  I  desire  to  speak." 

Britta  laughed  and  tossed  her  rough  brown  curls  back  from 
her  forehead.  Mischievous  dimples  came  and  went  at  the 
corners  of  her  mouth — indications  of  suppressed  fun. 

"The  Froken  is  out  too,"  she  said,  demurely.  "It's  time 
she  had  a  little  amusement;  and  the  gentlemen  treat  her  as  if 
she  were  a  queen!" 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  started,  and  his  red  visage  became  a  trifle 
paler. 

"Gentlemen?  What  gentlemen?"  he  demanded,  with  some 
impatience. 

Britta's  inward  delight  evidently  increased. 

"The  gentlemen  from  the  yacht,  of  course,"  she  said. 
"What  other  gentlemen  are  there?"  This  with  a  contemptu- 
ous up-and-down  sort  of  look  at  the  Lutheran  minister's  port- 
ly form.  "Sir  Philip  Errington  was  here  with  his  friend  yes- 
terday evening  and  stayed  a  long  time — and  to-day  a  fine  boat 
with  four  oars  came  to  fetch  the  master  and  Froken  Thelma, 
and  they  are  all  gone  for  a  sail  to  the  Kaa  Fjord,  or  some 
other  place  near  here — I  can  not  remember  the  name.  And  I 
am  so  glad!"  went  on  Britta,  clasping  her  plump  hands  in 
ecstasy.  "They  are  the  grandest,  handsomest  Herren  I  have 
ever  seen — and  one  can  tell  they  think  wonders  of  the  Froken 
— nothing  is  too  good  for  her!" 

Mr.  Dyceworthy's  face  was  the  picture  of  dismay.    This  was 


96  THELMA. 

a  new  turn  to  the  course  of  events,  and  one,  moreover,  that  he 
had  never  once  contemplated.    Britta  watched  him  amusedly. 

"Will  you  leave  any  message  for  them  when  they  return?" 
she  asked. 

"No,"  said  the  minister,  dubiously.  "Yet,  stay;  yes!  I 
will!  Tell  the  Froken  that  I  have  found  something  which  be- 
longs to  her,  and  that  when  she  wishes  to  have  it  I  will  myself 
bring  it." 

Britta  looked  across.  "If  it  is  hers  you  have  no  business  to 
keep  it,"  she  said,  brusquely.  "Why  not  leave  it — whatever  it 
is — with  me?" 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  regarded  her  with  a  bland  and  lofty  air. 

"I  trust  no  concerns  of  mine  or  hers  to  the  keeping  of  a  paid 
domestic,"  he  said.  "A  domestic,  moreover,  who  deserts  the 
ways  of  her  own  people — who  hath  dealings  with  the  dwellers 
in  darkness — who  even  bringeth  herself  to  forget  much  of  her 
own  native  tongue,  and  who  devoteth  herself  to — " 

What  he  would  have  said  was  uncertain,  as  at  that  moment 
he  was  nearly  thrown  down  by  a  something  that  slipped 
agilely  between  his  legs,  pinching  each  fat  calf  as  it  passed — 
a  something  that  looked  like  a  ball,  but  proved  to  be  a  human 
creature — no  other  than  the  crazy  Sigurd,  who,  after  accom- 
plishing his  uncouth  gambol  successfully,  stood  up,  shaking 
back  his  streaming  fair  locks  and  laughing  wildly. 

"Ha,  ha!"  he  exclaimed.  "That  was  good;  that  was  clever! 
If  I  had  upset  you,  now,  you  would  have  said  your  prayers 
backward!  What  are  you  here  for?  This  is  no  place  for  you! 
They  are  all  gone  out  of  it.  She  has  gone — all  the  world  is 
empty!  There  is  nothing  anywhere  but  air,  air,  air! — no 
birds,  no  flowers,  no  trees,  no  sunshine!  All  gone  with  her 
on  the  sparkling,  singing  water!"  and  he  swung  his  arms 
round  violently,  and  snapped  his  fingers  in  the  minister's  face. 
"What  an  ugly  man  you  are,"  he  exclaimed,  with  refreshing 
candor.  "I  think  you  are  uglier  than  I  am!  You  are  straight 
— but  you  are  like  a  load  of  peat — heavy  and  barren  and  fit  to 
burn.  Now,  I — I  am  the  crooked  bough  of  a  tree,  but  I  have 
bright  leaves  where  a  bird  hides  and  sings  all  day!  You — 
you  have  no  song,  no  foliage;  only  ugly  and  barren  and  fit  to 
bum!"  He  laughed  heartily,  and,  catching  sight  of  Britta 
where  she  stood  in  the  door-way  entirely  unconcerned  at  his 
eccentric  behavior,  he  went  up  to  her  and  took  hold  of  the 
corner   of  her   apron.      "Take   me  in,   Britta   dear — pretty 


THELMA.  97 

Britta!"  lie  said,  coa-xingly.  "Sigurd  is  hungry!  Britta, 
sweet  little  Britta — come  and  talk  to  me  and  sing!  Good-bye, 
fat  man!"  he  added,  suddenly,  turning  round  once  more  on 
Dyceworthy.  "You  will  never  overtake  the  big  ship  that  has 
gone  away  with  Thelma  over  the  water.  Thelma  will  come 
back — yes! — but  one  day  she  will  go  never  to  come  back."  He 
dropped  his  voice  to  a  mysterious  whisper.  "Last  night  I  saw 
a  little  spirit  come  out  of  a  rose — he  carried  a  tiny  golden 
hammer  and  nail,  and  a  ball  of  cord  like  a  rolled-up  sunbeam. 
He  flew  away  so  quickly  I  could  not  follow  him;  but  I  know 
where  he  went!  He  fastened  the  nail  in  the  heart  of  Thelma, 
deeply,  so  that  the  little  drops  of  blood  flowed — but  she  felt  no 
pain;  and  then  he  tied  the  gold  cord  to  the  nail  and  left  her, 
carrying  the  other  end  of  the  string  with  him — to  whom? 
Some  other  heart  must  be  pierced!  Whose  heart?"  Sigurd 
looked  infinitely  cunning  as  well  as  melancholy,  and  sighed 
deeply. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Dyceworthy  was  impatient  and  disgusted. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  solemn  patience,  "that 
this  hapless  creature,  accursed  of  God  and  man,  is  not  placed 
in  some  proper  abode  suitable  to  the  treatment  of  his  affliction. 
You,  Britta,  as  the  favored  servant  of  a — a — well,  let  us  say, 
of  a  peculiar  mistress,  should  persuade  her  to  send  this — this 
— ^person  away,  lest  his  vagaries  become  harmful." 

Britta  glanced  very  kindly  at  Sigurd,  who  still  held  her 
apron  with  the  air  of  a  trustful  child. 

"He's  no  more  harmful  than  you  are,"  she  said,  promptly, 
in  answer  to  the  minister's  remark.  "He's  a  good  fellow,  and 
if  he  talks  strangely  he  can  make  himself  useful — which  is 
more  than  can  be  said  of  certain  people.  He  can  saw  and 
chop  the  wood,  make  hay,  feed  the  cattle,  pull  a  strong  oar, 
and  sweep  and  keep  the  garden — can't  you,  Sigurd?"  She 
laid  her  hand  on  Sigurd's  shoulder,  and  he  nodded  his  head 
emphatically,  as  she  enumerated  his  different  talents.  "And 
as  for  climbing — he  can  guide  you  anywhere  over  the  hills,  or 
up  the  streams  to  the  big  waterfalls — no  one  better.  And  if 
you  mean  by  peculiar — that  my  mistress  is  different  to  other 
people,  why,  I  know  she  is,  and  am  glad  of  it — at  any  rate,  she's 
a  great  deal  too  kind-hearted  to  shut  this  poor  boy  up  in  a 
house  for  madmen!  He'd  die  if  he  couldn't  have  the  fresh 
air."  She  paused,  out  of  breath  with  her  rapid  utterance,  and 
Mr.  Dyceworthy  held  up  his  hands  in  dignified  astonishment. 
7 


98  THELMA. 

"You  talk  too  glibly,  young  woman/'  he  said.  "It  is  neces- 
sary that  I  should  instruct  you  without  loss  of  time  as  to  how 
you  should  be  sparing  of  your  words  in  the  presence  of  your 
superiors  and  betters — " 

Bang!  The  door  was  closed  with  a  decision  that  sent  a 
sharp  echo  through  the  silent,  heated  air,  and  Mr.  Dyceworthy 
was  left  to  contemplate  it  at  his  leisure.  Full  of  wrath,  he 
was  about  to  knock  peremptorily  and  insist  that  it  should  be 
reopened;  but  on  second  thoughts  he  decided  that  it  was  be- 
neath his  dignity  to  argue  with  a  servant,  much  less  with  a 
declared  lunatic  like  Sigurd — so  he  made  the  best  of  his  way 
back  to  his  boat,  thinking  gloomily  of  the  hard  labor  awaiting 
him  in  the  long  pull  back  to  Bosekop. 

Other  thoughts,  too,  tortured  and  harassed  his  brain,  and 
as  he  again  took  the  oars  and  plied  them  wearily  through  the 
water  he  was  in  an  exceedingly  unchristian  humor.  Though 
a  specious  hypocrite,  he  was  no  fool.  He  knew  the  ways  of 
men  and  women,  and  he  thoroughly  realized  the  present  posi- 
tion of  affairs.  He  was  quite  aware  of  Thelma  Guldmar's  ex- 
ceptional beauty — and  he  felt  pretty  certain  that  no  man 
could  look  upon  her  without  admiration.  But  up  to  this  time, 
she  had  been,  as  it  were,  secluded  from  all  eyes — a  few  hay- 
makers and  fishermen  were  the  only  persons  of  the  male  sex 
who  had  ever  been  within  the  precincts  of  Olaf  Guldmar's 
dwelling,  and  with  the  exception  of  himself,  Dyceworthy — 
who,  being  armed  with  a  letter  of  introduction  from  the  actual 
minister  of  Bosekop,  whose  place  he  for  the  present  filled,  had 
intruded  his  company  frequently  and  persistently  on  the  bonde 
and  his  daughter,  though  he  knew  himself  to  be  entirely  unwel- 
come. He  had  gathered  together  as  much  as  he  could  all  the 
scraps  of  information  concerning  them:  how  Olaf  Guldmar 
was  credited  with  having  made  away  with  his  wife  by  foul 
means;  how  nobody  ever  knew  where  his  wife  had  come  from; 
how  Thelma  had  been  mysteriously  educated,  and  had  learned 
strange  things  concerning  foreign  lands,  which  no  one  else  in 
the  place  understood  anything  about;  how  she  was  reputed  to 
be  a  witch,  and  was  believed  to  have  cast  her  spells  on  the 
unhappy  Sigurd,  to  the  destruction  of  his  reason — and  how 
nobody  could  tell  where  Sigurd  himself  had  come  from. 

All  this  Mr.  Dyceworthy  had  heard  with  much  interest,  and 
as  the  sensual  part  of  his  nature  was  always  more  or  less  pre- 
dominant, he  had  resolved  in  his  own  mind  that  here  was  a 


THELMA.  99 

field  of  action  suitable  to  his  abilities.  To  tame  and  break 
the  evil  spirit  in  the  reputed  witch;  to  convert  her  to  the  holy 
and  edif3dng  Lutheran  faith;  to  save  her  soul  for  the  Lord, 
and  take  her  beautiful  body  for  himself — these  were  Mr. 
Dyceworthy's  laudable  ambitions.  There  was  no  rival  to  op- 
pose him,  and  he  had  plenty  of  time  to  mature  his  plans.  So 
he  had  thought.  He  had  not  bargained  for  the  appearance  of 
Sir  Philip  Bruce-Errington  on  the  scene — a  man,  young, 
handsome,  and  well-bred,  with  vast  wealth  to  back  up  his  pre- 
tensions, should  he  make  any. 

"How  did  he  find  her  out?"  thought  the  Eev.  Charles,  as  he 
dolefully  pulled  his  craft  along.  "And  that  brutal  pagan 
Guldmar,  too,  who  pretends  he  can  not  endure  strangers!" 

And  as  he  meditated,  a  flush  of  righteous  indignation  crim- 
soned his  flabby  features. 

"Let  her  take  care,"  he  half  muttered,  with  a  smile  that  was 
not  pleasant;  "let  her  take  care!  There  are  more  ways  than 
one  to  bring  down  her  pride!  Sir  Philip  Errington  must  be 
too  rich  and  popular  in  his  own  country  to  think  of  wishing  to 
marry  a  girl  who  is  only  a  farmer's  daughter  after  all.  He 
may  trifle  with  her;  yes! — and  he  will  help  me  by  so  doing. 
The  more  mud  on  her  name,  the  better  for  me;  the  more  dis- 
grace, the  more  need  of  rescue,  and  the  more  grateful  she  will 
have  to  be.  Just  a  word  to  Ulrika — and  the  scandal  will 
spread.    Patience — patience!" 

And  somewhat  cheered  by  his  own  reflections,  though  still 
wearing  an  air  of  offended  dignity,  he  rowed  on,  glancing  up 
every  now  and  then  to  see  if  the  "Eulalie"  had  returned,  but 
her  place  was  still  empty. 

Meanwhile,  as  he  thought  and  planned,  other  thoughts  and 
plans  were  being  discussed  at  a  meeting  which  was  held  in  a 
little  ruined  stone  hut,  situated  behind  some  trees  on  a  dreary 
hill  just  outside  Bosekop.  It  was  a  miserable  place,  barren  of 
foliage — the  ground  was  dry  and  yellow,  and  the  hut  itself 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  struck  by  lightning.  The  friends 
whose  taste  had  led  them  to  select  this  dilapidated  dwelling 
as  a  place  of  conference  were  two  in  number,  both  women — 
one  of  them  no  other  than  the  minister's  servant,  the  drear- 
faced  Ulrika.  She  was  crouched  on  the  earth  floor  in  an  atti- 
tude of  utter  debasement,  at  the  feet  of  her  companion — an 
aged  dame  of  tall  and  imposing  appearance,  who,  standing 
erect,  looked  down  upon  her  with  an  air  of  mingled  contempt 


100  THELMA. 

and  malevolence.  The  hut  was  rather  dark,  for  the  roof  was 
not  sufficiently  destroyed  to  have  the  advantage  of  being  open 
to  the  sky. 

The  sunhght  fell  through  holes  of  different  shapes  and  sizes 
— one  specially  bright  patch  of  radiance  illumining  the  stately 
form  and  strongly  marked,  though  withered  features  of  the 
elder  woman,  whose  eyes,  deeply  sunken  in  her  head,  glittered 
with  a  hawk-like  and  evil  luster,  as  they  rested  on  the  pros- 
trate figure  before  her.  When  she  spoke,  her  accents  were 
harsh  and  commanding. 

"How  long?"  she  said,  "how  long  must  I  wait?  How  long 
must  I  watch  the  work  of  Satan  in  the  land?  The  fields  are 
barren  and  will  not  bring  forth;  the  curse  of  bitter  poverty  is 
upon  us  all;  and  only  he,  the  pagan  Guldmar,  prospers  and 
gathers  in  harvest,  while  all  around  him  starve!  Do  I  not 
know  the  devil's  work  when  I  see  it? — I,  the  chosen  servant 
of  the  Lord!"  And  she  struck  a  tall  staff  she  held  violently 
into  the  ground  to  emphasize  her  words.  "Am  I  not  left  de- 
serted in  my  age?  The  child  Britta — sole  daughter  of  my  sole 
daughter — is  she  not  stolen,  and  kept  from  me  ?  Has  not  her 
heart  been  utterly  turned  away  from  mine?  All  through  that 
vile  witch — accursed  of  God  and  man !  She  it  is  who  casts  the 
blight  on  our  land;  she  it  is  who  makes  the  hands  and  hearts 
of  our  men  heavy  and  careless,  so  that  even  luck  has  left  the 
fishing;  and  yet  you  hesitate — you  delay,  you  will  not  fulfill 
your  promise!  I  tell  you,  there  are  those  in  Bosekop  who,  at 
my  bidding,  would  cast  her  naked  into  the  fjord,  and  leave 
her  there,  to  sink  or  swim  according  to  her  nature!" 

"I  know,"  murmured  Ulrika,  humbly,  raising  herself  slight- 
ly from  her  kneeling  posture;  "I  know  it  well! — but,  good 
Lovisa,  be  patient!  I  work  for  the  best!  Mr.  Dyceworthy 
will  do  more  for  us  than  we  can  do  for  ourselves;  he  is  wise 
and  cautious — " 

Lovisa  interrupted  her  with  a  fierce  gesture.  "Fool!"  she 
cried:  "What  need  of  caution?  A  witch  is  a  witch — burn  her, 
drown  her!  There  is  no  other  remedy!  But  two  days  since 
the  child  of  my  neighbor  Engla  passed  her  on  the  fjord;  and 
now  the  boy  has  sickened  of  some  strange  disease,  and  'tis 
said  he  will  die.  Again,  the  drove  of  cattle  owned  by  Hild- 
mar  Bjom  were  herded  home  when  she  passed  by.  Now  they 
are  seized  by  the  murrain  plague!     Tell  your  good  saint 


THELMA.  101 

Dyceworthy  these  things;  if  he  can  find  no  cure,  1  can — and 
will." 

Ulrika  shuddered  slightly  as  she  rose  from  the  ground  and 
stood  erect,  drawing  her  shawl  closely  about  her. 

"You  hate  her  so  much,  Lovisa?"  she  asked,  almost  timidly. 

Lovisa's  face  darkened,  and  her  yellow,  claw-like  hand 
closed  round  her  strong  staff  in  a  cruel  and  threatening  man- 
ner. 

"Hate  her!"  she  muttered;  "I  have  hated  her  ever  since  she 
was  born!  I  hated  her  mother  before  her!  A  nest  of  devils, 
every  one  of  them;  and  the  curse  will  always  be  upon  us  while 
they  dwell  here." 

She  paused  and  looked  at  Ulrika  steadily. 

"Eemember!"  she  said,  with  an  evil  leer  on  her  lips,  "I  hold 
a  secret  of  yours  that  is  worth  the  keeping!  I  give  you  two 
weeks  more;  within  that  time  you  must  act!  Destroy  the 
witch — bring  back,  to  me  my  grandchild  Britta,  or  else — it  will 
be  my  turn!" 

And  she  laughed  silently.  Ulrika's  face  grew  paler,  and 
the  hand  that  grasped  the  folds  of  her  shawl  trembled  vio- 
lently. She  made  an  effort,  however,  to  appear  composed,  as 
she  answered: 

"I  have  sworn  to  obey  you,  Lovisa — and  I  will.  But  tell 
me  one  thing — how  do  you  know  that  Thelma  Guldmar  is  in- 
deed a  witch?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  almost  yelled  Lovisa.  "Have  I  lived  all 
these  years  for  nothing?  Look  at  her!  Am  I  like  her?  Are 
you  like  her?  Are  any  of  the  honest  women  of  the  neighbor- 
hood hke  her?  Meet  her  on  the  hills  with  knives  and  pins — 
prick  her,  and  see  if  the  blood  will  flow!  I  swear  it  will  not 
— not  one  drop!  Her  skin  is  too  white;  there  is  no  blood  in 
those  veins — only  fire!  Look  at  the  pink  in  her  cheeks — the 
transparency  of  her  flesh — the  glittering  light  in  her  eyes,  the 
gold  of  her  hair — it  is  all  devil's  work,  it  is  not  human,  it  is 
not  natural!  I  have  watched  her — I  used  to  watch  her  mother, 
and  curse  her  every  time  I  saw  her — ay!  curse  her  till  I  was 
breathless  with  cursing — " 

She  stopped  abruptly.  Ulrika  gazed  at  her  with  as  much 
wonder  as  her  plain,  heavy  face  was  capable  of  expressing. 
Lovisa  saw  the  look  and  smiled  darkly. 

"One  would  think  you  had  never  known  what  love  is!"  she 
said,  with  a  sort  of  grim  satire  in  her  tone.    "Yet  even  your 


102  THELMA. 

dull  soul  was  on  fire  once!    But  I — when  I  was  young,  I  had 
beauty  such  as  you  never  had,  and  I  loved — Olaf  Guldmar." 

Ulrika  uttered  an  exclamation  of  astonishment.  "You!  and 
yet  you  hate  him  now?" 

Lovisa  raised  her  hand  with  an  imperious  gesture. 

"I  have  grown  hate  like  a  flower  in  my  breast,"  she  said, 
with  a  sort  of  stern  impressiveness.  "I  have  fostered  it  year 
after  year,  and  now — it  has  grown  too  strong  for  me!  When 
Olaf  Guldmar  was  young  he  told  me  I  was  fair;  once  he  kissed 
my  cheek  at  parting!  For  those  words — for  that  kiss — I  loved 
him  then — for  the  same  things  I  hate  him  now!  When  I  knew 
he  had  married,  I  cursed  him;  on  the  day  of  my  own  marriage 
with  a  man  I  despised,  I  cursed  him!  I  have  followed  him 
and  all  his  surroundings  with  more  curses  than  there  are  hours 
in  the  day!  I  have  had  some  little  revenge — yes!" — and  she 
laughed  grimly — "but  I  want  more!  For  Britta  has  been 
caught  by  his  daughter's  evil  spell.  Britta  is  mine,  and  I 
must  have  her  back.  Understand  me  well! — do  what  you 
have  to  do  without  delay!  Surely  it  is  an  easy  thing  to  ruin 
a  woman!" 

Ulrika  stood  as  though  absorbed  in  meditation,  and  said 
nothing  for  some  moments.  At  last  she  murmured,  as  though 
to  herself: 

"Mr.  Dyceworthy  could  do  much — if — " 

"Ask  him,  then,"  said  Lovisa,  imperatively.  "Tell  him 
the  village  is  in  fear  of  her.  Tell  him  that  if  he  will  do  noth- 
ing, we  will.  And  if  all  fails,  come  to  me  again;  and  remem- 
ber!— I  shall  not  only  act — I  shall  speak!" 

And  emphasizing  the  last  word  as  a  sort  of  threat,  she 
turned  and  strode  out  of  the  hut. 

Ulrika  followed  more  slowly,  taking  a  different  direction  to 
that  in  which  her  late  companion  was  seen  rapidly  disappear- 
ing. On  returning  to  the  minister's  dwelling,  she  found  that 
Mr.  Dyceworthy  had  not  yet  come  back  from  his  boating  ex- 
cursion. She  gave  no  explanation  of  her  absence  to  her  two 
fellow-servants,  but  went  straight  up  to  her  own  room — a  bare 
attic  in  the  roof — where  she  deliberately  took  off  her  dress 
and  bared  her  shoulders  and  breast.  Then  she  knelt  down  on 
the  rough  boards,  and  clasping  her  hands,  began  to  writhe 
and  wrestle  as  though  she  were  seized  with  a  sudden  convul- 
sion. She  groaned  and  tortured  the  tears  from  her  eyes;  she 
pinched  her  own  flesh  till  it  was  black  and  blue,  and  scratched 


THBLMA.  103 

it  with  her  nails  till  it  bled — and  she  prayed  inaudibly,  but 
with  evident  desperation.  Sometimes  her  gestures  were  fran- 
tic, sometimes  appealing;  but  she  made  no  noise  that  was 
loud  enough  to  attract  attention  from  any  of  the  dwellers  in 
the  house.  Her  stolid  features  were  contorted  with  anguish — 
and  had  she  been  an  erring  nun  of  the  creed  she  held  in  such 
bitter  abhorrence,  who,  for  some  untold  crime,  endured  a  self- 
imposed  penance,  she  could  not  have  punished  her  own  flesh 
much  more  severely. 

She  remained  some  quarter  of  an  hour  or  twenty  minutes 
thus;  then  rising  from  her  knees,  she  wiped  the  tears  from  her 
eyes  and  reclothed  herself,  and  with  her  usual  calm,  immov- 
able aspect — though  smarting  sharply  from  the  injuries  she 
had  inflicted  on  herself — she  descended  to  the  kitchen,  there 
to  prepare  Mr.  Dyceworthy's  tea  with  all  the  punctilious  care 
and  nicety  befitting  the  meal  of  so  good  a  man  and  so  perfect 
a  saint. 


CHAPTER  X. 

She  believed  that  by  dealing  nobly  with  all,  all  would  show 
themselves  noble;  so  that  whatsoever  she  did  became  her.— Hafiz. 

As  the  afternoon  lengthened,  and  the  sun  lowered  his  glitter- 
ing shield  toward  that  part  of  the  horizon  where  he  rested  a 
brief  while  without  setting,  the  '"^Eulalie" — her  white  sails 
spread  to  the  cool,  refreshing  breeze — swept  gracefully  and 
swiftly  back  to  her  old  place  on  the  fjord,  and  her  anchor 
dropped  with  musical  clank  and  splash,  just  as  Mr.  Dyce- 
worthy  entered  his  house,  fatigued,  perspiring,  and  ill-tem- 
pered at  the  non-success  of  his  day.  All  on  board  the  yacht 
were  at  dinner — a  dinner  of  the  most  tasteful  and  elegant  de- 
scription, such  as  Sir  Philip  Errington  well  knew  how  to  order 
and  superintend — and  Thelma,  leaning  against  the  violet  vel- 
vet cushions  that  were  piled  behind  her  for  her  greater  ease, 
looked — as  she  indeed  was — the  veritable  queen  of  the  feast. 
Macfarlane  and  Duprez  had  been  rendered  astonished  and 
bashful  by  her  excessive  beauty.  From  the  moment  she  came 
on  board  with  her  father,  clad  in  her  simple  white  gown,  with 
a  deep  crimson  hood  drawn  over  her  fair  hair,  and  tied  under 
her  rounded  chin,  she  had  taken  them  all  captive — they  were 


104  THBLMA. 

her  abject  slaves  in  heart,  though  they  put  on  very  creditable 
airs  of  manly  independence  and  nonchalance.  Each  man  in 
his  different  way  strove  to  amuse  or  interest  her,  except, 
strange  to  say,  Errington  himself,  who,  though  deeply  courte- 
ous to  her,  kept  somewhat  in  the  background,  and  appeared 
more  anxious  to  render  himself  agreeable  to  old  Olaf  Guldmar 
than  to  win  the  good  graces  of  his  lovely  daughter.  The  girl 
was  delighted  with  everything  on  board  the  yacht — she  ad- 
mired its  elegance  and  luxury  with  child-like  enthusiasm;  she 
gloried  in  the  speed  with  which  its  glittering  prow  cleaved 
the  waters;  she  clapped  her  hands  at  the  hiss  of  the  white 
foam  as  it  split  into  a  creaming  pathway  for  the  rushing  ves- 
sel; and  she  was  so  unaffected  and  graceful  in  all  her  actions 
and  attitudes  that  the  slow  blood  of  the  cautious  Macfarlane 
began  to  warm  up  by  degrees  to  a  most  unwonted  heat  of  ad- 
miration. When  she  had  first  arrived,  Errington,  in  receiving 
her,  had  seriously  apologized  for  not  having  some  lady  to  meet 
her,  but  she  seemed  not  to  understand  his  meaning.  Her 
naive  smile  and  frankly  uplifted  eyes  put  all  his  suddenly 
conceived  notions  of  social  stifi^ness  to  flight. 

"Why  should  a  lady  come?"  she  asked,  sweetly.  "It  is  not 
necessary?" 

"Of  course  it  isn't!"  said  Lorimer,  promptly  and  delight- 
edly. "I  am  sure  we  shall  be  able  to  amuse  you,  Miss 
Guldmar." 

"Oh — for  that!"  she  replied,  with  a  little  shrug  that  had 
something  French  about  it.  "I  amuse  myself  always!  I  am 
amused  now — you  must  not  trouble  yourselves!" 

As  she  was  introduced  to  Duprez  and  Macfarlane,  she  gave 
them  each  a  quaint,  sweeping  courtesy,  which  had  the  effect 
of  making  them  feel  the  most  ungainly,  lumbersome  fellows 
on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Macfarlane  grew  secretly  enraged 
at  the  length  of  his  legs — while  Pierre  Duprez,  though  his  bow 
was  entirely  Parisian,  decided  in  his  own  mind  that  it  was 
jerky,  and  not  good  style.  She  was  perfectly  unembarrassed 
with  all  the  young  men;  she  laughed  at  their  jokes  and  turned 
her  glorious  eyes  full  on  them  with  the  unabashed  sweetness 
of  innocence;  she  listened  to  the  accounts  they  gave  her  of 
their  fishing  and  climbing  excursions  with  the  most  eager  in- 
terest— and  in  her  turn,  she  told  them  of  fresh  nooks  and 
streams  and  waterfalls,  of  which  tliey  bad  never  even  heard 
the  names.    Not  only  were  they  enchanted  with  her,  but  they 


THELMA.  105 

were  thoroughly  delighted  with  her  father,  Olaf  Guldmar. 
The  sturdy  old  pagan  was  in  the  best  of  humors,  and  seemed 
determined  to  be  pleased  with  everything;  he  told  good  stories 
and  laughed  that  rollicking,  jovial  laugh  of  his  with  such  un- 
forced heartiness  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  dull  in  his  com- 
pany— and  not  one  of  Errington's  companions  gave  a  thought 
to  the  reports  concerning  him  and  his  daughter  which  had 
been  so  gratuitously  related  by  Mr.  Dyceworthy. 

They  had  had  a  glorious  day's  sail,  piloted  by  Valdemar 
Svensen,  whose  astonishment  at  seeing  the  Guldmars  on  board 
the  "Eulalie"  was  depicted  in  his  face,  but  who  prudently 
forbore  from  making  any  remarks  thereon.  The  bonde  hailed 
him  good-humoredly  as  an  old  acquaintance — much  in  the 
tone  of  a  master  addressing  a  servant — and  Thelma  smiled 
kindly  at  him;  but  the  boundary  line  between  superior  and 
inferior  was  in  this  case  very  strongly  marked,  and  neither 
side  showed  any  intention  of  overstepping  it.  In  the  course 
of  the  day  Duprez  had  accidentally  lapsed  into  French,  where- 
upon, to  his  surprise,  Thelma  had  answered  him  in  the  same 
tongue — though  with  a  different  and  much  softer  pronuncia- 
tion. Her  "hienzoli!"  had  the  mellifluous  sweetness  of  the 
Provencal  dialect,  and  on  his  eagerly  questioning  her,  he 
learned  that  she  had  received  her  education  in  a  large  convent 
at  Aries,  where  she  had  learned  French  from  the  nuns.  Her 
father  overheard  her  talking  of  her  school-days,  and  he  added: 

"Yes,  I  sent  my  girl  away  for  her  education,  though  I  know 
the  teaching  is  good  in  Christiania.  Yet  it  did  not  seem  good 
enough  for  her.  Besides,  your  modern  'higher  education'  is 
not  the  fit  thing  for  a  woman — it  is  too  heavy  and  common- 
place. Thelma  knows  nothing  about  mathematics  or  algebra. 
She  can  sing  and  read  and  write — and,  what  is  more,  she  can 
spin  and  sew;  but  even  these  things  were  not  the  first  con- 
sideration with  me.  I  wanted  her  disposition  trained,  and  her 
bodily  health  attended  to.  I  said  to  those  good  women  at 
Aries:  'Look  here — here's  a  child  for  you!  I  don't  care  how 
much  or  how  little  she  knows  about  accomplishments.  I  want 
her  to  be  sound  and  sweet  from  head  to  heel — a  clean  mind  in 
a  wholesome  body.  Teach  her  self-respect,  and  make  her 
prefer  death  to  a  lie.  Show  her  the  curse  of  a  shrewish  tem- 
per and  the  blessing  of  cheerfulness.  That  will  satisfy  me!' 
I  dare  say,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  those  nuns  thought  me 
an  odd  customer;  but,  at  any  rate,  they  seemed  to  understand 


106  THELMA. 

me.  Thelma  was  very  happy  with  them,  and  considering  all 
things" — the  old  man's  eyes  twinkled  fondly — "she  hasn't 
turned  out  so  badly!" 

They  laughed — and  Thelma  blushed  as  Emngton's  dreamy 
eyes  rested  on  her  with  a  look,  which,  though  he  was  uncon- 
scious of  it,  spoke  passionate  admiration.  The  day  passed  too 
quickly  with  them  all — and  now,  as  they  sat  at  dinner  in  the 
richly  ornamented  saloon,  there  was  not  one  among  them  who 
could  contemplate  without  reluctance  the  approaching  break- 
up of  so  pleasant  a  party.  Dessert  was  served,  and  as  Thelma 
toyed  with  the  fruit  on  her  plate  and  sipped  her  glass  of  cham- 
pagne, her  fair  face  grew  serious  and  absorbed — even  sad — and 
she  scarcely  seemed  to  hear  the  merry  chatter  of  tongues 
around  her,  till  Errington's  voice  asking  a  question  of  her 
father  roused  her  into  a  swift  attention. 

"Do  you  know  any  one  of  the  name  of  Sigurd?"  he  was  say- 
ing, "a  poor  fellow  whose  wits  are  in  heaven,  let  us  hope — for 
they  certainly  are  not  on  earth." 

Olaf  Guldmar's  fine  face  softened  with  pity,  and  he  replied: 

*'Sigurd?  Have  you  met  him,  then?  Ah,  poor  boy,  his  is  a 
sad  fate!  He  has  wit  enough,  but  it  works  wrongly;  the  brain 
is  there,  but  'tis  twisted.  Yes,  we  know  Sigurd  well  enough 
— his  home  is  with  us,  in  default  of  a  better.  Ay,  ay!  we 
snatched  him  from  death — perhaps  unwisely — yet  he  has  a 
good  heart  and  finds  pleasure  in  his  life." 

"He  is  a  kind  of  poet  in  his  own  way,"  went  on  Errington, 
watching  Thelma  as  she  listened  intently  to  their  conversa- 
tion. "Do  you  know  he  actiially  visited  me  on  board  here 
last  night,  and  begged  me  to  go  away  from  the  Alten  Fjord 
altogether?  He  seemed  afraid  of  me,  as  if  he  thought  I  meant 
to  do  him  some  harm." 

"How  strange!"  murmured  Thelma.  "Sigurd  never  speaks 
to  visitors — he  is  too  shy.    I  can  not  understand  his  motive!" 

"Ah,  my  dear!"  sighed  her  father.  "Has  he  any  motive  at 
all? — and  does  he  ever  understand  himself?  His  fancies 
change  with  every  shifting  breeze!  I  will  tell  you,"  he  con- 
tinued, addressing  himself  to  Errington,  "how  he  came  to  be, 
as  it  were,  a  bit  of  our  home.  Just  before  Thelma  was  born, 
I  was  walking  with  my  wife  one  day  on  the  shore,  when  we 
both  caught  sight  of  something  bumping  against  our  little 
pier,  like  a  large  box  or  basket.  I  managed  to  get  hold  of  it 
with  a  boat-hook  and  drag  it  in;  it  was  a  sort  of  creel  such  as 


THELMA.  107 

is  used  to  pack  fish  in,  and  in  it  was  the  naked  body  of  a  half- 
drowned  cliild.  It  was  an  ugly  little  creature — a  newly  born 
infant  deformity — and  on  its  chest  there  was  a  horrible  scar 
in  the  shape  of  a  cross,  as  though  it  had  been  gashed  deeply 
with  a  pen-knife.  I  thought  it  was  dead,  and  was  for  throw- 
ing it  back  into  the  fjord,  but  my  wife — a  tender-hearted 
angel — took  the  poor  wretched  little  wet  body  in  her  arms, 
and  found  that  it  breathed.  She  warmed  it,  dried  it,  and 
wrapped  it  in  her  shawl — and  after  awhile  the  tiny  monster 
opened  its  eyes  and  stared  at  her.  Well! — somehow,  neither 
of  us  could  forget  the  look  it  gave  us — such  a  solemn,  warn- 
ing, pitiful,  appealing  sort  of  expression!  There  was  no  re- 
sisting it — so  we  took  the  foundling  and  did  the  best  we  could 
for  him.  We  gave  him  the  name  of  Sigurd — and  when  Thelma 
was  born,  the  two  babies  used  to  play  together  all  day,  and 
we  never  noticed  anything  wrong  with  the  boy,  except  his 
natural  deformity,  till  he  was  about  ten  or  twelve  years  old. 
Then  we  saw  to  our  sorrow  that  the  gods  had  chosen  to  play 
havoc  with  his  wits.  However,  we  humored  him  tenderly, 
and  he  was  always  manageable.  Poor  Sigurd!  He  adored 
my  wife;  I  have  known  him  listen  for  hours  to  catch  the  sound 
of  her  footstep;  he  would  actually  deck  the  threshold  with 
flowers  in  the  morning  that  she  might  tread  on  them  as  she 
passed  by," 

The  old  bonde  sighed  and  rubbed  his  hand  across  his  eyes 
with  a  gesture  half  of  pain,  half  of  impatience.  "And  now 
he  is  Thelma's  slave — a  regular  servant  to  her.  She  can 
manage  him  best  of  us  all — he  is  as  docile  as  a  lamb,  and  will 
do  anything  she  tells  him." 

"I  am  not  surprised  at  that,"  said  the  gallant  Duprez;  "there 
is  reason  in  such  obedience!" 

Thelma  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  ignoring  the  implied 
compliment. 

"You  think  so?"  she  said,  simply.  "I  am  glad!  I  always 
hope  that  he  will  one  day  be  well  in  mind — and  every  little 
sign  of  reason  in  him  is  pleasant  to  me." 

Duprez  was  silent.  It  was  evidently  no  use  making  even 
an  attempt  at  flattering  this  strange  girl;  surely  she  must  be 
dense  not  to  understand  compliments  that  most  other  women 
compel  from  the  lips  of  men  as  their  right?  He  was  confused 
— his  Paris  breeding  was  no  use  to  him — in  fact  he  had  been 
at  a  loss  all  day,  and  his  conversation  had,  even  to  himself, 


108  THELMA. 

seemed  particularly  shallow  and  frothy.  This  Mile.  Guldmar, 
as  he  called  her,  was  by  no  means  stupid;  she  was  not  a  mere 
moving  statue  of  lovely  flesh  and  perfect  color  whose  outward 
beauty  was  her  only  recommendation — she  was,  on  the  con- 
trary, of  a  most  superior  intelligence — she  had  read  much  and 
thought  more — and  the  dignified  elegance  of  her  manner  and 
bearing  would  have  done  honor  to  a  queen.  After  all,  thought 
Duprez,  musingly,  the  social  creeds  of  Paris  might  he  wrong 
— it  was  just  possible!  There  might  be  women  who  were 
womanly — there  might  be  beautiful  girls  who  were  neither 
vain  nor  frivolous — there  might  even  be  creatures  of  the  femi- 
nine sex  beside  whom  a  trained  Parisian  coquette  would  seem 
nothing  more  than  a  painted  fiend  of  the  neuter  gender. 
These  were  new  and  startling  considerations  to  the  feather- 
light  mind  of  the  Frenchman — and  unconsciously,  his  fancy 
began  to  busy  itself  with  the  old  romantic  histories  of  the 
ancient  French  chivalry,  when  faith  and  love  and  loyalty  kept 
white  the  lilies  of  France,  and  the  stately  courtesy  and  un- 
flinching pride  of  the  ancien  regime  made  its  name  honored 
throughout  the  world.  An  odd  direction  indeed  for  Pierre 
Duprez's  reflections  to  wander  in — he,  who  never  reflected  on 
either  past  or  future,  but  was  content  to  fritter  away  the  pres- 
ent as  pleasantly  as  might  be — and  the  only  reason  to  which 
his  unusually  serious  reverie  could  be  attributed  was  the  pres- 
ence of  Thelma.  She  certainly  had  a  strange  influence  on 
them  all,  though  she  herself  was  not  aware  of  it — and  not  only 
Errington,  but  each  one  of  his  companions,  had  been  deeply 
considering  during  the  day  that,  notwithstanding  the  unhe- 
roic  tendency  of  modern  living,  life  itself  might  be  turned  to 
good  and  even  noble  account,  if  only  an  effort  were  made  in 
the  right  direction. 

Such  was  the  compelling  effect  of  Thelma's  stainless  mind, 
reflected  in  her  pure  face,  on  the  different  dispositions  of  all 
the  young  men;  and  she,  perfectly  unconscious  of  it,  smiled 
at  them  and  conversed  gayly — little  knowing,  as  she  talked  in 
her  own  sweet  and  unaffected  way,  that  the  most  profound 
resolutions  were  being  formed,  and  the  most  noble  and  un- 
selfish deeds  were  being  planned  in  the  souls  of  her  listeners 
— all  forsooth!  because  one  fair,  innocent  woman  had,  in  the 
clear,  grave  glances  of  her  wondrous  sea-blue  eyes,  suddenly 
made  them  aware  of  their  own  utter  unworthiness.  Macfar- 
lane,  meditatively  watching  the  girl  from  under  his  pale  eye- 


THELMA.  109 

lashes,  thought  of  Mr.  Dyceworthy's  matrimonial  pretensions 
with  a  humorous  smile  hovering  on  his  thin  lips. 

"Ma  certes!  the  fellow  has  an  unco'  gude  opeenion  o' 
himsel',"  he  mused.  "lie  might  as  well  offer  his  hand  in 
marriage  to  the  queen  while  he's  aboot  it — he  wad  hae  just  as 
muckle  chance  o'  acceptance." 

Meanwhile,  Errington,  having  learned  all  he  wished  to 
know  concerning  Sigurd,  was  skillfully  drawing  out  old  Olaf 
Guldmar,  and  getting  him  to  give  his  ideas  on  things  in  gen- 
eral, a  task  in  which  Lorimer  joined. 

"So  you  don't  think  we're  making  any  progress  nowadays  ?" 
inquired  the  latter,  with  an  appearance  of  interest  and  a  lazy 
amusement  in  his  blue  eyes  as  he  put  the  question. 

"Progress!"  exclaimed  Guldmar.  "Not  a  bit  of  it!  It  is  all 
a  going  backward;  it  may  not  seem  apparent,  but  it  is  so. 
England,  for  instance,  is  losing  the  great  place  she  once  held 
in  the  world's  history — and  these  things  always  happen  to  all 
nations  when  money  becomes  more  precious  to  the  souls  of  the 
people  than  honesty  and  honor.  I  take  the  universal  wide- 
spread greed  of  gain  to  be  one  of  the  worst  signs  of  the  times 
— the  forewarning  of  some  great  upheaval  and  disaster,  the 
effects  of  which  no  human  mind  can  calculate.  I  am  told  that 
America  is  destined  to  be  the  dominating  power  of  the  future 
— but  I  doubt  it!  Its  politics  are  too  corrupt — its  people  live 
too  fast  and  burn  their  candle  at  both  ends,  which  is  unnat- 
ural and  most  unwholesome;  moreover,  it  is  almost  destitute  of 
Art  in  its  highest  forms — and  is  not  its  confessed  watchword 
'the  Almighty  Dollar'?  And  such  a  country  as  that  expects 
to  arrogate  to  itself  the  absolute  sway  of  the  world?  I  tell 
you,  no — ten  thousand  times  no!  It  is  destitute  of  nearly 
everything  that  has  made  nations  great  and  all-powerful  in 
historic  annals — and  my  belief  is  that  what  has  been  will  be 
again — and  that  what  has  never  been,  will  never  be." 

"You  mean  by  that,  I  suppose,  that  there  is  no  possibility 
of  doing  anything  new — no  way  of  branching  out  in  some  bet- 
ter and  untried  direction?"  asked  Errington. 

Olaf  Guldmar  shook  his  head  emphatically.  "You  can't  do 
it,"  he  said,  decisively.  "Everything  in  every  way  has  been 
begun  and  completed  and  then  forgotten  over  and  over  in 
this  world — to  be  begun  and  completed  and  forgotten  again, 
and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  No  one  nation  is  better 
than  another  in  this  respect — there  is,  there  can  be,  nothing 


110  THELMA. 

new.  Norway,  for  example,  has  had  its  day;  whether  it  will 
ever  have  another  I  know  not — at  any  rate,  I  shall  not  live  to 
see  it.  And,  yet,  what  a  past — !"  He  broke  oft'  and  Ms  eyes 
grew  meditative. 

Lorimer  looked  at  him.  "You  would  have  been  a  Viking, 
Mr.  Guldmar,  had  you  lived  in  the  old  days,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile. 

"I  should  indeed!"  returned  the  old  man,  with  an  uncon- 
sciously haughty  gesture  of  his  head;  "and  no  better  could 
have  befallen  me!  To  sail  the  seas  in  hot  pursuit  of  one's 
enemies  or  in  search  of  further  conquest — to  feel  the  very 
wind  and  sun  beating  up  the  blood  in  one's  veins — to  live  the 
life  of  a  man — a  true  man! — ^in  all  the  pride  and  worth  of 
strength  and  invincible  vigor! — how  much  better  than  the 
puling,  feeble,  sickly  existence  led  by  the  majority  of  men 
to-day!  I  dwell  apart  from  them  as  much  as  I  can — I  steep 
my  mind  and  body  in  the  joys  of  nature  and  the  free  fresh  air 
— but  often  I  feel  that  the  old  days  of  the  heroes  must  have 
been  best — when  Gorm  the  Bold  and  the  fierce  Siegfried 
seized  Paris,  and  stabled  their  horses  in  the  chapel  where 
Charlemagne  lay  buried!" 

Pierre  Duprez  looked  up  with  a  faint  smile.  "Ah,  pardon! 
But  that  was  surely  a  very  long  time  ago!" 

"True!"  said  Guldmar,  quietly.  "And  no  doubt  you  will 
not  believe  the  story  at  this  distance  of  years.  But  the  day 
is  coming  when  people  will  look  back  on  the  little  chronicle  of 
your  empire — your  commvme — your  republic,  all  your  little 
affairs  and  will  say:  'Surely  these  things  are  myths;  they 
occurred — if  they  occurred  at  all — a  very  long  time  ago!'" 

"Monsieur  is  a  philosopher!"  said  Duprez,  with  a  good- 
humored  gesture;  "I  would  not  presume  to  contradict  him." 

"You  see,  my  lad,"  went  on  Guldmar,  more  gently,  "there 
is  much  in  our  ancient  Norwegian  history  that  is  forgotten  or 
ignored  by  students  of  to-day.  The  travelers  that  come  hither 
come  to  see  the  glories  of  our  glaciers  and  fjords — but  they 
think  little  or  nothing  of  the  vanished  tribe  of  heroes  who 
once  possessed  the  land.  If  you  know  your  Greek  history, 
you  must  have  heard  of  Pythias,  who  lived  three  hundred  and 
fifty-six  years  before  Christ,  and  who  was  taken  captive  by  a 
band  of  Norsemen  and  carried  away  to  see  'the  place  where 
the  sun  slept  in  winter.'  Most  probably  he  came  to  this  very 
spot,  the  Alten  Fjord — at  any  rate,  the  ancient  Greeks  had 


THELMA.  Ill 

good  words  to  say  for  the  'Outside  Northwinders/  as  they 
called  us  Norwegians,  for  they  reported  us  to  be  'persons  liv- 
ing in  peace  with  their  gods  and  themselves.'  Again,  one  of 
the  oldest  tribes  in  the  world  came  among  us  in  times  past 
— the  Phoenicians — there  are  traces  among  us  still  of  their 
customs  and  manners.  Yes!  we  have  a  great  deal  to  look 
back  upon  with  pride  as  well  as  sorrow;  and  much  as  I  hear  of 
the  wonders  of  the  New  World,  the  marvels  and  the  go-ahead 
speed  of  American  manners  and  civilization,  I  would  rather 
be  a  Norseman  than  a  Yankee."    And  he  laughed. 

"There's  more  dignity  in  the  name,  at  any  rate,"  said  Lori- 
mer.  "But  I  say,  Mr.  Guldmar,  you  are  'up'  in  history  much 
better  than  I  am.  The  annals  of  my  country  were  grounded 
into  my  tender  soul  early  in  life,  but  I  have  a  very  hazy  recol- 
lection of  them.  I  know  Henry  VIII.  got  rid  of  his  wives 
expeditiously  and  conveniently — and  I  distinctly  remember 
that  Queen  Elizabeth  wore  the  first  pair  of  silk  stockings,  and 
danced  a  kind  of  jig  in  them  with  the  Earl  of  Leicester;  these 
things  interested  me  at  the  time — and  they  now  seem  firmly 
impressed  on  my  memory  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else 
that  might  possibly  be  more  important." 

Old  Guldmar  smiled,  but  Thelma  laughed  outright,  and  her 
eyes  danced  mirthfully. 

"Ah,  I  do  know  you  now!"  she  said,  nodding  her  fair  head 
at  him  wisely.  "You  are  not  anything  that  is  to  be  believed! 
So  I  shall  well  understand  you — that  is,  you  are  a  very  great 
scholar — but  that  it  pleases  you  to  jDretend  you  are  a  dunce!" 

Lorimer's  face  brightened  into  a  very  gentle  and  winning 
softness  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"I  assure  you.  Miss  Guldmar,  I  am  not  pretending  in  the 
least.  I'm  no  scholar.  Errington  is,  if  you  like!  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  him,  I  should  never  have  learned  anything  at  Oxford 
at  all.  He  used  to  leap  over  a  difficulty  while  I  was  looking 
at  it.  Phil,  don't  interrupt  me — you  know  you  did!  I  tell 
you  he's  up  to  everything:  Greek,  Latin,  and  all  the  rest  of  it 
— and,  what's  more,  he  writes  well;  I  believe — though  he'll 
never  forgive  me  for  mentioning  it — that  he  has  even  pub- 
lished some  poems." 

"Be  quiet,  George!"  exclaimed  Errington,  with  a  vexed 
laugh.    "You  are  boring  Miss  Guldmar  to  death!" 

"What  is  boring?"  asked  Thelma,  gently,  and  then  turning 
her  eyes  full  on  the  young  baronet,  she  added,  "I  like  to  hear 


112  THELMA. 

that  you  will  pass  your  days  sometimes  without  shooting  the 
birds  and  killing  the  fish;  it  can  hurt  nobody  for  you  to  write." 
And  she  smiled  that  dreamy,  pensive  smile  of  hers  that  was  so 
infinitely  bewitching.  "You  must  show  me  all  your  sweet 
poems!" 

Errington  colored  hotly.  "They  are  all  nonsense.  Miss 
Guldmar,"  he  said  quickly.  "There's  nothing  'sweet'  about 
them,  I  tell  you  frankly.    All  rubbish,  every  line  of  them!" 

"Then  you  should  not  write  them,"  said  Thelma,  quietly. 
"It  is  only  a  pity  and  a  disappointment." 

"I  wish  every  one  were  of  your  opinion,"  laughed  Lorimer; 
"it  would  spare  us  a  lot  of  indifl:erent  verse." 

"Ah!  you  have  the  chief  Skald  of  all  the  world  in  your 
land!"  cried  Guldmar,  bringing  his  fist  down  with  a  Jovial 
thump  on  the  table.  "He  can  teach  you  all  that  you  need  to 
know." 

"Skald?"  queried  Lorimer,  dubiously,  "Oh,  you  mean 
bard.     I  suppose  you  allude  to  Shakespeare?" 

"I  do,"  said  the  old  bonde,  enthusiastically,  "he  is  the  only 
glory  of  your  country  I  envy!  I  would  give  anything  to  prove 
bim  a  Norwegian.  By  Valhalla!  had  he  but  been  one  of  the 
bards  of  Odin  the  world  might  have  followed  the  grand  old 
creed  still!  If  anything  could  ever  persuade  me  to  be  a 
Christian,  it  would  be  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  was  one.  If 
England's  name  is  rendered  imperishable,  it  will  be  through 
the  fame  of  Shakespeare  alone — just  as  we  have  a  kind  of 
tenderness  for  degraded  modern  Greece,  because  of  Homer. 
Ay,  ay!  countries  and  nations  are  worthless  enough;  it  is  only 
the  great  names  of  heroes  that  endure,  to  teach  the  lesson  that 
is  never  learned  sufficiently,  namely,  that  man  and  man  alone 
is  fitted  to  grasp  the  prize  of  immortality." 

"Ye  believe  in  immortality?"  inquired  Macfarlane,  seriously. 

Guldmar's  keen  eyes  lighted  on  him  with  fiery  impetuous- 
ness. 

"Believe  in  it?  I  possess  it!  How  can  it  be  taken  from  me? 
As  well  make  a  bird  without  wings,  a  tree  without  sap,  an 
ocean  without  depth,  as  expect  to  find  a  man  without  an  im- 
mortal soul!  What  a  question  to  ask!  Do  you  not  possess 
Heaven's  gift?  and  why  should  not  I?" 

"No  offense,"  said  Macfarlane,  secretly  astonished  at  the 
old  bonde's  fervor — for  had  not  he,  though  himself  intending 
to  become  a  devout  minister  of  the  Word — had  not  he  now  and 
then  felt  a  creeping  doubt  as  to  whether,  after  all,  there  was 


THELMA.  113 

any  truth  in  the  doctrine  of  another  life  than  this  one?  "I 
only  thocht  ye  might  have  perhaps  questioned  the  probabeel- 
ity  o't,  in  your  own  mind." 

"I  never  question  Divine  authority,"  replied  Olaf  Guldmar; 
"I  pity  those  that  do!" 

"And  this  Divine  authority/'  asked  Duprez,  suddenly,  with 
a  delicate  sarcastic  smile,  "how  and  where  do  you  perceive  it?" 

"In  the  very  Law  that  compels  me  to  exist,  young  sir,"  said 
Guldmar — "in  the  mysteries  of  the  universe  about  me — the 
glory  of  the  heavens — the  wonders  of  the  sea!  You  have  per- 
haps lived  in  cities  all  your  life,  and  your  mind  is  cramped  a 
bit.  No  wonder — you  can  hardly  see  the  stars  above  the  roofs 
of  a  wilderness  of  houses.  Cities  arc  men's  work — the  gods 
have  never  had  a  finger  in  the  building  of  them.  Dwelling  in 
them,  I  suppose  you  can  not  help  forgetting  Divine  authority 
altogether;  but  here — here  among  the  mountains,  you  would 
soon  remember  it!  You  should  live  here — it  would  make  a 
man  of  you!" 

"And  you  do  not  consider  me  a  man?"  inquired  Duprez, 
with  imperturbable  good  humor. 

Guldmar  laughed.  "Well,  not  quite!"  he  admitted  can- 
didly; "there's  not  enough  muscle  about  you.  I  confess  I  like 
to  see  strong  fellows — fellows  fit  to  rule  the  planet  on  which 
they  are  placed.  That's  my  whim! — but  you're  a  neat  little 
chap  enough,  and  I  dare  say  you  can  hold  your  own!" 

And  his  eyes  twinkled  good-temperedly  as  he  filled  himself 
another  glass  of  his  host's  fine  Burgundy  and  drank  it  off, 
while  Duprez,  with  a  half-plaintive,  half-comical  shrug  of  res- 
ignation to  Guldmar's  verdict  on  his  personal  appearance, 
asked  Thelma  if  she  would  favor  them  with  a  song.  She  rose 
from  her  seat  instantly,  without  any  affected  hesitation,  and 
went  to  the  piano.  She  had  a  delicate  touch,  and  accompanied 
herself  with  great  taste;  but  her  voice — full,  penetrating,  rich 
and  true — was  one  of  the  purest  and  most  sympathetic  ever 
possessed  by  woman,  and  its  freshness  was  unspoiled  by  any 
of  the  varied  "systems"  of  torture  invented  by  singing-masters 
for  the  ingenious  destruction  of  the  delicate  vocal  organ.  She 
sung  a  Norwegian  love-song  in  the  original  tongue,  which 
might  be  roughly  translated  as  follows: 

"Lovest  thou  me  for  my  beauty's  sake? 
Love  me  not  then! 
Love  the  victorious,  glittering  Sun, 
The  fadeless,  deathless,  marvelous  One! 
8 


114  THBLMA. 

"Lovest  thou  me  for  my  youth's  sake? 
Love  me  not  then! 
Love  the  triumphant,  unperishing  Spring, 
Who  every  year  new  charms  doth  bring! 

"Lovest  thou  me  for  treasure's  sake? 
Oh,  love  me  not  then! 
Love  the  deep,  the  wonderful  Sea, 
Its  jewels  are  worthier  love  than  me! 

"Lovest  thou  me  for  Love's  own  sake? 
Ah,  sweet,  then  love  me! 
More  than  the  Sun  and  the  Spring  and  the  Sea, 
Is  the  faithful  heart  I  will  yield  to  thee!" 

A  silence  greeted  the  close  of  her  song.  Though  the  young 
men  were  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  the  words  till  old  Guld- 
mar  translated  them  for  their  benefit,  they  could  feel  the  in- 
tensity of  the  passion  vibrating  through  her  ringing  tones — 
and  Errington  sighed  involuntarily.  She  heard  the  sigh,  and 
turned  round  on  the  music-stool  laughing. 

"Are  you  so  tired,  or  sad,  or  what  is  it?"  she  asked,  merrily. 
"It  is  too  melancholy  a  tune  ?  And  I  was  foolish  to  sing  it — 
because  you  can  not  understand  the  meaning  of  it.  It  is  all 
about  love — and  of  course  love  is  always  sorrowful." 

"Always?"  asked  Lorimer,  with  a  half  smile. 

*'I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  frankly,  with  a  pretty,  depreca- 
tory gesture  of  her  hands — "but  all  books  say  so!  It  must  be 
a  great  pain  and  also  a  great  happiness.  Let  me  think  what  I 
can  sing  to  you  now — but  perhaps  you  will  yourself  sing?" 

"Not  one  of  us  has  a  voice,  Miss  Guldmar,"  said  Erring- 
ton.  "I  used  to  think  I  had,  but  Lorimer  discouraged  my 
efforts." 

"Men  shouldn't  sing,"  observed  Lorimer.  "If  they  only 
knew  how  awfully  ridiculous  they  look,  standing  up  in  dress- 
coats  and  white  ties,  pouring  forth  inane  love-ditties  that 
nobody  wants  to  hear,  they  wouldn't  do  it.  Only  a  woman 
looks  pretty  while  singing." 

"Ah,  that  is  very  nice!"  said  Thelma,  with  a  demure  smile. 
"Then  I  am  agreeable  to  you  when  I  sing?" 

Agreeable?  This  was  far  too  tame  a  word — they  all  rose 
from  the  table  and  came  toward  her,  with  many  assurances  of 
their  delight  and  admiration;  but  she  put  all  their  compli- 
ments aside  with  a  little  gesture  that  was  both  incredulous 
and  peremptory. 


THELMA.  115 

"You  must  not  say  so  many  things  in  praise  of  me,"  she 
said,  with  a  swift  upward  glance  at  Errington,  where  he  leaned 
on  the  piano  regarding  her.  "It  is  nothing  to  be  able  to  sing. 
It  is  only  like  the  birds;  but  we  can  not  understand  the  words 
they  say,  just  as  you  can  not  understand  Norwegian.  Listen 
— here  is  a  little  ballad  you  will  all  know,"  and  she  played  a 
soft  prelude,  while  her  voice,  subdued  to  a  plaintive  murmur, 
rippled  out  in  the  dainty  verses  of  Sainte-Beuve: 

"Sur  ma  lyre,  I'autre  fois 

Dans  un  bois, 
Ma  main  pr6Iudait  k  peine; 
Une  colombe  descend 

En  passant, 
Blanche  sur  le  luth  d'6b6ne. 

"Mais  au  lieu  d'accords  touchants, 
De  doux  chants. 
La  colombe  gSmissante 
Me  demande  par  pitie 

Sa  moiti6 
Sa  moitie  loin  d'elle  absente!" 

She  sung  this  seriously  and  sweetly  till  she  came  to  the  last 
three  lines,  when,  catching  Errington's  earnest  gaze,  her  voice 
quivered  and  her  cheeks  flushed.  She  rose  from  the  piano  as 
soon  as  she  had  finished,  and  said  to  the  bonde,  who  had  been 
watching  her  with  proud  and  gratified  looks: 

"It  is  growing  late,  father.  We  must  say  good-bye  to  our 
friends  and  return  home." 

"Not  yet!"  eagerly  implored  Sir  Philip.  "Come  up  on  deck 
— we  will  have  coffee  there,  and  afterward  you  shall  leave  us 
when  you  will." 

Guldmar  acquiesced  in  this  arrangement  before  his  daugh- 
ter had  time  to  raise  any  objection,  and  they  all  went  on  deck, 
where  a  comfortable  lounging-chair  was  placed  for  Thelma, 
facing  the  most  gorgeous  portion  of  the  glowing  sky,  which  on 
this  evening  was  like  a  moving  mass  of  molten  gold,  split 
asunder  here  and  there  by  angry,  ragged-looking  rifts  of  crim- 
son. The  young  men  grouped  themselves  together  at  the 
prow  of  the  vessel  in  order  to  smoke  their  cigars  without  an- 
noyance to  Thelma.  Old  Guldmar  did  not  smoke,  but  he 
talked — and  Errington,  after  seeing  them  all  fairly  absorbed 
in  an  argument  on  the  best  methods  of  spearing  salmon,  moved 
quietly  away  to  where  the  girl  was  sitting,  her  great  pensive 
eyes  fixed  on  the  burning  splendors  of  the  heavens. 


116  THBLMA. 

"Are  you  warm  enough  there?"  he  asked,  and  there  was  an 
unconscious  tenderness  in  his  voice  as  he  asked  the  question; 
"or  shall  I  fetch  you  a  wrap  ?" 

She  smiled.  "I  have  my  hood,"  she  said.  "It  is  the  warm- 
est thing  I  ever  wear,  except,  of  course,  in  winter." 

Philip  looked  at  the  hood  as  she  drew  it  more  closely  over 
her  head,  and  thought  that  surely  no  more  becoming  article  of 
apparel  ever  was  designed  for  woman's  wear.  He  had  never 
seen  anything  like  it  either  in  color  or  texture — ^it  was  of  a 
peculiarly  warm,  rich  crimson,  like  the  heart  of  a  red  damask 
rose,  and  it  suited  the  bright  hair  and  tender,  thoughtful  eyes 
of  its  owner  to  perfection. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  drawing  a  little  nearer  and  speaking  in 
a  lower  tone,  "have  you  forgiven  me  for  my  rudeness  the  first 
time  I  saw  you?" 

She  looked  a  little  troubled. 

"Perhaps  also  I  was  rude,"  she  said,  gently.  "I  did  not 
know  you.    I  thought — " 

"You  were  quite  right,"  he  eagerly  interrupted  her.  "It 
was  very  impertinent  of  me  to  ask  you  for  your  name.  I 
should  have  found  it  out  for  myself,  as  I  have  done." 

And  he  smiled  at  her  as  he  said  the  last  words  with  marked 
emphasis.    She  raised  her  eyes  wistfully. 

"And  you  are  glad?"  she  asked,  softly  and  with  a  sort  of 
wonder  in  her  accents. 

"Glad  to  know  your  name?  glad  to  know  you!  Of  course! 
Can  you  ask  such  a  question?" 

"But  why?"  persisted  Thelma.  "It  is  not  as  if  you  were 
lonely— you  have  friends  already.  We  are  nothing  to  you. 
Soon  you  will  go  away,  and  you  will  think  of  the  Alten  Fjord 
as  a  dream — and  our  names  will  be  forgotten.  That  is  nat- 
ural!" 

What  a  foolish  rush  of  passion  filled  his  heart  as  she  spoke 
in  those  mellow,  almost  plaintive  accents— what  wild  words 
leaped  to  his  Kps,  and  what  an  effort  it  cost  him  to  keep  them 
back!  The  heart  and  impetuosity  of  Eomeo— whom  up  to  the 
present  he  had  been  inclined  to  consider  a  particularly  stupid 
youth — was  now  quite  comprehensible  to  his  mind,  and  he, 
the  cool,  self-possessed  Englishman,  was  ready  at  that  mo- 
ment to  rival  Juliet's  lover  in  his  utmost  excesses  of  amorous 
folly.  In  spite  of  his  self-restraint,  his  voice  quivered  a  little 
as  he  answered  her: 


THELMA.  ,  117 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  Altcn  Fjord  or  you,  Miss  Guld- 
mar.  Don't  yon  know  there  are  some  things  that  can  not  be 
forgotten? — sucli  as  a  sudden  glimpse  of  fine  scenery,  a  beau- 
tiful song,  or  a  pathetic  poem."  She  bent  her  head  in  assent. 
"And  here  there  is  so  much  to  remember — the  light  of  the 
midnight  sun — the  glorious  mountains,  the  loveliness  of  the 
whole  land!" 

"Is  it  better  than  other  countries  you  have  seen?"  asked  the 
girl,  with  some  interest. 

"Much  better!"  returned  Sir  Philip,  fervently.  "In  fact, 
there  is  no  place  like  it,  in  my  opinion."  He  paused  at  the 
sound  of  her  pretty  laughter. 

"You  are — what  is  it? — ecstatic!"  she  said,  mirthfully.  "Tell 
me,  have  you  been  to  the  south  of  France  and  the  Pyrenees?" 

"Of  course  I  have,"  he  replied.  "I  have  been  all  over  the 
Continent — traveled  about  it  till  I'm  tired  of  it.  Do  you  like 
the  south  of  France  better  than  Norway?" 

"No — not  so  very  much  better,"  she  said,  dubiously.  "And 
yet  a  little.  It  is  so  warm  and  bright  there,  and  the  people 
are  gay.  Here  they  are  stern  and  sullen.  My  father  loves  to 
sail  the  seas,  and  when  I  first  went  to  school  at  Aries,  he  took 
me  a  long  and  beautiful  voyage.  We  went  from  Christiansund 
to  Holland,  and  saw  all  those  pretty  Dutch  cities  with  their 
canals  and  quaint  bridges.  Then  we  went  through  the  Eng- 
lish Channel  to  Brest — then  by  the  Bay  of  Biscay  to  Bayonne. 
Bayonne  seemed  to  me  very  lovely,  but  we  left  it  soon,  and 
traveled  a  long  way  by  land,  seeing  all  sorts  of  wonderful 
things,  till  we  came  to  Aries.  And  though  it  is  such  a  long 
route,  and  not  one  for  many  persons  to  take,  I  have  traveled 
to  Aries  and  back  twice  that  way,  so  all  there  is  familiar  to 
me — and  in  some  things  I  do  think  it  better  than  Norway." 

"What  induced  your  father  to  send  you  so  far  away  from 
him?"  asked  Philip,  rather  curiously. 

The  girl's  eyes  softened  tenderly.  "Ah,  that  is  easy  to  un- 
derstand!" she  said.    "My  mother  came  from  Aries." 

"She  was  French,  then?"  he  exclaimed,  with  some  surprise. 

"No,"  she  answered,  gravely.  "She  was  Norwegian,  be- 
cause her  father  and  mother  both  were  of  this  land.  She  was 
what  they  call  'born  sadly.'  You  must  not  ask  me  any  more 
about  her,  please!" 

Errington  apologized  at  once  with  some  embarrassment,  and 
a  deeper  color  than  usual  on  his  face.  She  looked  up  at  him 
quite  frankly. 


118  THELMA. 

"It  is  possible  I  will  tell  you  her  history  some  day/'  she  said, 
"when  we  shall  know  each  other  better.  I  do  like  to  talk  to 
you  very  much!  I  suppose  there  are  not  many  Englishmen 
like  you?*' 

Philip  laughed.  "I  don't  think  I  am  at  all  exceptional! 
Why  do  you  ask?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  have  seen  some  of  them," 
she  said,  slowly,  "and  they  are  stupid.  They  shoot,  shoot — 
fish,  fish,  all  day,  and  eat  a  great  deal." 

"My  dear  Miss  Guldmar,  I  also  do  all  these  things!"  declared 
Errington,  amusedly.  "These  are  only  our  surface  fiinlts. 
Englishmen  are  the  best  fellows  to  be  found  anywhere.  You 
mustn't  judge  them  by  their  athletic  sports  or  their  vulgar 
appetites.  You  must  appeal  to  their  hearts  when  you  want  to 
know  them." 

"Or  to  their  pockets,  and  you  will  know  them  still  better!" 
said  Thelma,  almost  mischievously,  as  she  raised  herself  in 
her  chair  to  take  a  cup  of  coffee  from  the  tray  that  was  then 
being  handed  to  her  by  the  respectful  steward.  "Ah,  how 
good  this  is!    It  reminds  me  of  our  coffee  luncheon  at  Aries!" 

Errington  watched  her  with  a  half  smile,  but  said  no  more, 
as  the  others  now  came  up  to  claim  their  share  of  her  company. 

"I  say!"  said  Lorimer,  lazily  throwing  himself  full  length 
on  the  deck  and  looking  up  at  her,  "come  and  see  us  spear  a 
salmon  to-morrow.  Miss  Guldmar.  Your  father  is  going  to 
show  us  how  to  do  it  in  proper  Norse  style." 

"That  is  for  men,"  said  Thelma,  loftily.  "Women  must 
know  nothing  about  such  things." 

"By  Jove!"  and  Lorimer  looked  profoundly  astonished. 
"Why,  Miss  Guldmar,  women  are  going  in  for  everything  now- 
adays! Hunting,  shooting,  bull-fighting,  dueling,  horsewhip- 
ping, lecturing — Heaven  knows  what!  They  stop  at  nothing 
— salmon-spearing  is  a  mere  trifle  in  the  list  of  modem  femi- 
nine accomplishments." 

Thelma  smiled  down  upon  him  benignly.  "You  will  always 
be  the  same,"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  indulgent  air.  "It  is 
your  delight  to  say  things  upside  down!  But  you  shall  not 
make  me  believe  that  women  do  all  these  dreadful  things. 
Because,  how  is  it  possible?    The  men  would  not  allow  them!" 

Errington  laughed,  and  Lorimer  appeared  stupefied  with 
surprise. 

"The  men — would — not — allow  them?"  he  repeated,  slowly. 


THELMA.  119 

"Oh,  Miss  Guldmar,  little  do  you  realize  the  state  of  things  at 
the  present  day!  The  glamour  of  Viking  memories  clings 
about  you  still!  Don't  you  know  the  power  of  man  has  passed 
away,  and  that  ladies  do  exactly  as  they  like?  It  is  easier  to 
control  the  thunder-bolt  than  to  prevent  a  woman  having  her 
own  way/' 

"All  that  is  nonsense!"  said  Thelma,  decidedly.  "Where 
there  is  a  man  to  rule,  he  must  rule,  that  is  certain." 

"Is  that  positively  your  opinion?"  and  Lorimer  looked  more 
astonished  than  ever. 

"It  is  everybody's  opinion,  of  course!"  averred  Thelma. 
"How  fooKsh  it  would  be  if  women  did  not  obey  men!  The 
world  would  be  all  confusion!  Ah,  you  see  you  can  not  make 
me  think  your  funny  thoughts;  it  is  no  use!"  And  she  laugh- 
ed and  rose  from  her  chair,  adding,  with  a  gentle,  persuasive 
air:  "Father,  dear,  is  it  not  time  to  say  good-bye?" 

"Truly  I  think  it  is!"  returned  Guldmar,  giving  himself  a 
shake  like  an  old  lion,  as  he  broke  off  a  rather  tedious  conver- 
sation he  had  been  having  with  Macfarlane.  "We  shall  have 
Sigurd  coming  to  look  for  us,  and  poor  Britta  will  think  we 
have  left  her  too  long  alone.  Thank  you,  my  lad!"  this  to  Sir 
Pliilip,  who  instantly  gave  orders  for  the  boat  to  be  lowered. 
"You  have  given  us  a  day  of  thorough,  wholesome  enjoyment. 
I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  return  it  in  some  way.  You  must  let 
us  see  as  much  of  you  as  possible." 

They  shook  hands  cordially,  and  Errington  proposed  to 
escort  them  back  as  far  as  their  own  pier,  but  this  offer  Guld- 
mar refused. 

"Nonsense!"  he  exclaimed,  cheerily.  "With  four  oarsmen 
to  row  us  along,  why  should  we  take  you  away  from  your 
friends?  I  won't  hear  of  such  a  thing!  And  now,  regarding 
the  great  fall  of  Njedegorze:  Mr.  Macfarlane  here  says  you 
have  not  visited  it  yet.  Well,  the  best  guide  you  can  have 
there  is  Sigurd.  We'll  make  up  a  party  and  go  when  it  is 
agreeable  to  you;  it  is  a  grand  sight — well  worth  seeing.  To- 
morrow we  shall  meet  again  for  the  salmon-spearing — I  war- 
rant I  shall  be  able  to  make  the  time  pass  quickly  for  you! 
How  long  do  you  think  of  staying  here?" 

"As  long  as  possible!"  answered  Errington,  absently,  his 
eyes  wandering  to  Thelma,  who  was  just  then  shaking  hands 
with  his  friends  and  bidding  them  farewell. 

Guldmar  laughed  and  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder.    "That 


120  THELMA. 

means  till  you  are  tired  of  the  place,"  he  said,  good-hiimored- 
ly.  "Well,  you  shall  not  be  dull  if  I  can  prevent  it!  Good- 
bye, and  thanks  for  your  hospitality." 

"Ah,  yes!"  added  Thelma,  gently,  coming  up  at  that  mo- 
ment and  laying  her  soft  hand  in  his.  "I  have  been  so  happy 
all  day,  and  it  is  all  your  kindness!    I  am  very  grateful!" 

"It  is  I  who  have  cause  to  be  grateful,"  said  Errington,  hur- 
riedly, clasping  her  hand  warmly,  "for  your  company  and  that 
of  your  father.  I  trust  we  shall  have  many  more  pleasant  days 
together." 

"I  hope  so  too!"  she  answered,  simply,  and  then,  the  boat 
being  ready,  they  departed.  Errington  and  Lorimer  leaned 
on  the  deck-rails,  waving  their  hats  and  watching  them  dis- 
appear over  the  gleaming  water,  till  the  very  last  glimpse  of 
Thelma's  crimson  hood  had  vanished,  and  they  turned  to 
rejoin  their  companions,  who  were  strolling  up  and  down 
smoking. 

"BeUecomine  un  ange!"  said  Duprez,  briefly.  "In  short,  I 
doubt  if  the  angels  are  so  good  looking!" 

"The  auld  pagan's  a  fine  scholar,"  added  Macfarlane,  medi- 
tatively.   "He  corrected  me  in  a  bit  o'  Latin." 

"Did  he,  indeed?"  And  Lorimer  laughed  indolently.  "I 
suppose  you  think  better  of  him  now,  Sandy?" 

Sandy  made  no  reply,  and  as  Errington  persisted  in  turning 
the  conversation  away  from  the  merits  or  demerits  of  their 
recent  guests,  they  soon  entered  on  other  topics.  But  that 
night,  before  retiring  to  rest,  Lorimer  laid  a  hand  on  his 
friend's  shoulder,  and  said,  quietly,  with  a  keen  look: 

"Well,  old  man,  have  you  made  up  your  mind?  Have  I 
seen  the  future  Lady  Bruce-Errington?" 

Sir  Philip  smiled — then,  after  a  brief  pause,  answered, 
steadily: 

"Yes,  George,  you  have!    That  is — if  I  can  win  her!" 

Lorimer  laughed  a  little  and  sighed.  "There's  no  doubt 
about  that,  Phil."  And  eyeing  Errington's  fine  figure  and 
noble  features  musingly,  he  repeated  again,  thoughtfully: 
"No  doubt  about  that,  my  boy!"  Then,  after  a  pause,  he  said 
somewhat  abruptly:     "Time  to  turn  in — good-night!" 

"Good-night,  old  fellow!"  And  Errington  wrung  his  hand 
warmly,  and  left  him  to  repose. 

But  Lorimer  had  rather  a  bad  night — he  tossed  and  tumbled 


THELMA.  121 

a  good  deal,  and  had  dreaiiLs — unusual  visitors  with  him — and 
once  or  twice  he  muttered  in  his  sleep:    "No  doubt  about  it — 
not  the  least  in  the  world — and  if  there  were — " 
But  the  conclusion  of  this  sentence  was  inaudible. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Tu  vas  faire  un  beau  reve, 
Et  t'enivrer  d'un  plaisir  dangereux. 

Sur  ton  chemin  I'^toile  qui  se  leve 
Longtemps  encore  eblouira  tes  yeux! 

De  Musset. 

A  fortnight  passed.  The  first  excursion  in  the  "Eulalie" 
had  been  followed  by  others  of  a  similar  kind,  and  Errington's 
acquaintance  with  the  Guldmars  was  fast  ripening  into  a  pleas- 
ant intimacy.  It  had  grown  customary  for  the  young  men  to 
spend  that  part  of  the  day  which,  in  spite  of  persistent  sun- 
shine, they  still  called  evening,  in  the  comfortable,  quaint 
parlor  of  the  old  farm-house — looking  at  the  view  through  the 
rose-wreathed  windows — listening  to  the  fantastic  legends  of 
Norway  as  told  by  Olaf  Guldmar — or  watching  Thelma's  pict- 
uresque figure  as  she  sat  pensively  apart  in  her  shadowed 
corner  spinning.  They  had  fraternized  with  Sigurd  too — 
that  is,  as  far  as  he  would  permit  them — for  the  unhappy 
dwarf  was  uncertain  of  temper,  and  if  at  one  hour  he  were  do- 
cile and  yielding  as  a  child,  the  next  he  would  be  found  excited 
and  furious  at  some  imaginary  slight  that  he  fancied  had  been 
inflicted  upon  him.  Sometimes,  if  good-humored,  he  would 
talk  almost  rationally — only  allowing  his  fancy  to  play  with 
poetical  ideas  concerning  the  sea,  the  flowers  or  the  sunlight 
— but  he  was  far  more  often  sullen  and  silent.  He  would  draw 
a  low  chair  to  Thelma's  side,  and  sit  there  with  half-closed 
eyes  and  compressed  lips,  and  none  could  tell  whether  he  lis- 
tened to  the  conversation  around  him,  or  was  utterly  indiffer- 
ent to  it.  He  had  taken  a  notable  fancy  to  Lorimer,  but  he 
avoided  Errington  in  the  most  marked  and  persistent  manner. 
The  latter  did  his  best  to  overcome  this  unreasonable  dislike, 
but  his  efforts  were  useless — and  deciding  in  his  own  mind 
that  it  was  best  to  humor  Sigurd's  vagaries,  he  soon  let  him 
alone,  and  devoted  his  attention  more  entirely  to  Thelma. 


122  THELMA. 

One  evening,  after  supper  at  the  farm-house,  Lorimer,  who 
for  some  time  had  been  watching  Phihp  and  Thelma  convers- 
ing together  in  low  tones  near  the  open  window,  rose  from  his 
seat  quietly,  without  disturbing  the  hilarity  of  the  bonde,  who 
was  in  the  middle  of  a  rollicking  sea-story,  told  for  Macfar- 
lane's  entertainment,  and  sUpped  out  into  the  garden,  where 
he  strolled  along  rather  absently  till  he  found  himself  in  the 
little  close  thicket  of  pines — the  very  same  spot  where  he  and 
Philip  had  stood  on  the  first  day  of  their  visit  thither.  He 
threw  himself  down  on  the  soft  emerald  moss  and  lighted  a 
cigar,  sighing  rather  drearily  as  he  did  so. 

"Upon  my  life/'  he  mused,  with  a  half  smile,  "I  am  very 
nearly  being  a  hero — a  regular  stage-martyr — the  noble  creat- 
ure of  the  piece!  By  Jove,  I  wish  I  were  a  soldier!  I'm  cer- 
tain I  could  stand  the  enemy's  fire  better  than  this!  Self- 
denial?  Well,  no  wonder  the  preachers  make  such  a  fuss 
about  it.  It's  a  tough,  uncomfortable  duty.  But  am  I  self- 
denying?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  Look  here,  George  Lorimer" — 
here  he  tapped  himself  very  vigorously  on  his  broad  chest — 
"don't  you  imagine  yourself  to  be  either  virtuous  or  magnani- 
mous! If  you  were  anything  of  a  man  at  all  you  would  never 
let  your  feelings  get  the  better  of  you — you  would  be  sublimely 
indifferent,  stoically  calm — and,  as  it  is,  you  know  what  a 
sneaking,  hang-dog  state  of  envy  you  were  in  Just  now  when 
you  came  out  of  that  room!  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself 
— rascal  ?" 

The  inner  self  he  thus  addressed  was  most  probably  abashed 
by  this  adjuration,  for  his  countenance  cleared  a  little,  as 
though  he  had  received  an  apology  from  his  own  conscience. 
He  puffed  lazily  at  his  cigar,  and  felt  somewhat  soothed. 
Light  steps  below  him  attracted  his  attention,  and,  looking 
down  from  the  little  knoll  on  which  he  lay,  he  saw  Thelma 
and  Philip  pass.  They  were  walking  slowly  along  a  little 
winding  path  that  led  to  the  orchard,  which  was  situated  at 
some  little  distance  from  the  house.  The  girl's  head  was 
bent,  and  Philip  was  talking  to  her  with  evident  eagerness. 
Lorimer  looked  after  them  earnestly,  and  his  honest  eyes  were 
full  of  trouble. 

"God  bless  them  both !"  he  murmured,  half  aloud.  "There's 
no  harm  in  saying  that,  anyhow!  Dear  old  Phil!  I  wonder 
whether — " 

What  he  would  have  said  was  uncertain,  for  at  that  moment 


THBLMA.  123 


he  was  considerably  startled  by  the  sight  of  a  meager,  pale 
face  peering  through  the  parted  pine-boughs — a  face  in  which 
two  wild  eyes  shone  with  a  blue-green  glitter  like  that  of  new- 
ly sharpened  steel. 

"Halloo,  Sigurd!"  said  Lorimer,  good-naturedly,  as  he  rec- 
ognized his  visitor.  "What  are  you  up  to?  Going  to  climb 
a  tree?" 

Sigurd  pushed  aside  the  branches  cautiously  and  approach- 
ed. He  sat  down  by  Lorimer,  and,  taking  his  hand,  kissed  it 
deferentially. 

"I  followed  you.  I  saw  you  go  away  to  grieve  alone.  I 
came  to  grieve  also!"  he  said  with  a  patient  gentleness. 

Lorimer  laughed  languidly.  "By  Jove,  Sigurd,  you're  too 
clever  for  your  age!  Think  I  came  away  to  grieve,  eh?  Not 
so,  my  boy — came  away  to  smoke!  There's  a  come-down  for 
you!     I  never  grieve — don't  know  how  to  do  it.     What  is 

grief?" 

"To  love!"  answered  Sigurd,  promptly.  "To  see  a  beauti- 
ful elf  with  golden  wings  come  fluttering,  fluttering  gently 
down  from  the  sky — you  open  your  arms  to  catch  her — so! — 
and  just  as  you  think  you  have  her,  she  leans  only  a  little  bit 
on  one  side  and  falls,  not  into  your  heart — no! — ^into  the  heart 
of  some  one  else!  That  is  grief,  because,  when  she  has  gone, 
no  more  elves  come  down  from  the  sky — for  you,  at  any  rate; 
good  things  may  come  for  others — but  for  you  the  heavens  are 
empty!" 

Lorimer  was  silent  looking  at  the  speaker  curiously. 

"How  do  you  get  all  this  nonsense  into  your  head,  eh?"  he 
inquired,  kindly. 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  Sigurd,  with  a  sigh.  "It  comes! 
But,  tell  me" — and  he  smiled  wistfully — "it  is  true,  dear 
friend — good  friend — it  is  all  true,  is  it  not?  For  you  the 
heavens  are  empty?    You  know  it!" 

Lorimer  flushed  hotly,  and  then  grew  strangely  pale.  After 
a  pause,  he  said,  in  his  usual  indolent  way: 

"Look  here,  Sigurd;  you're  romantic!  I'm  not.  I  know 
nothing  about  elves  or  empty  heavens.  I'm  all  right!  Don't 
you  bother  yourself  about  me." 

The  dwarf  studied  his  face  attentively,  and  a  smile  of 
almost  fiendish  cunning  suddenly  illumined  his  thin  features. 
He  laid  his  weak-looking  white  hand  on  the  young  man's  arm 
and  said,  in  a  lower  tone : 


124  THELMA. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  to  do.    Kill  him!" 

The  last  two  words  were  uttered  with  such  intensity  of 
meaning  that  Lorimer  positively  recoiled  from  the  accents  and 
the  terrible  look  which  accompanied  them. 

"I  say,  Sigurd,  this  won't  do,"  he  remonstrated,  gravely. 
"You  mustn't  talk  about  Idlling,  you  know!  It's  not  good  for 
you.  People  don't  kill  each  other  nowadays  so  easily  as  you 
seem  to  think.  It  can't  be  done,  Sigurd!  Nobody  wants  to 
do  it." 

"It  can  be  done!"  reiterated  the  dwarf,  imperatively.  "It 
must  be  done  and  either  you  or  I  will  do  it!  He  shall  not  rob 
U8 — he  shall  not  steal  the  treasure  of  the  golden  midnight. 
He  shall  not  gather  the  rose  of  all  roses — " 

"Stop!"  said  Lorimer,  suddenly.  "Who  are  you  talking 
about?" 

"Who?"  cried  Sigurd,  excitedly.  "Surely  you  know.  Of 
him — that  tall,  proud,  gray-eyed  Englishman — your  foe,  your 
rival;  the  rich,  cruel  Errington!" 

Lorimer's  hand  fell  heavily  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  voice 
M'as  very  stern. 

"What  nonsense,  Sigurd!  You  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  about  to-day.  Errington  my  foe!  Good  heavens! 
Why,  he's  my  best  friend!     Do  you  hear?" 

Sigurd  stared  up  at  liim  in  vacant  surprise,  but  nodded 
feebly. 

"Well,  mind  you  remember  it!  The  spirits  tell  lies,  my 
boy,  if  they  say  that  he  is  my  enemy.  I  would  give  my  life 
to  save  his!" 

He  spoke  quietly,  and  rose  from  his  seat  on  the  moss  as  he 
finished  his  words,  and  his  face  had  an  expression  that  was 
both  noble  and  resolute. 

Sigurd  still  gazed  upon  him.  "And  you — you  do  nut  love 
Thelma?"  he  murmured. 

Lorimer  started,  but  controlled  himself  instantly.  His 
frank  English  eyes  met  the  feverishly  brilliant  ones  fixed  so 
appealingly  upon  him. 

"Certainly  not!"  he  said,  calmly,  with  a  serene  smile. 
"What  makes  you  think  of  such  a  thing?  Quite  wrong,  Sig- 
urd— the  spirits  have  made  a  mistake  again!  Come  along — let 
us  join  the  others." 

But  Sigurd  would  not  accompany  him.  He  sprung  away 
like  a  frightened  animal,  in  haste,  and  abruptly  plunging  into 


THELMA.  125 

the  depths  of  a  wood  that  bordered  on  Olaf  Guldmar's 
grounds,  was  soon  lost  to  sight.  Lorimer  looked  after  him  in 
a  little  perplexity. 

"I  wonder  if  he  ever  gets  dangerous?"  he  thought.  "A  fel- 
low with  such  queer  notions  might  do  some  serious  harm  with- 
out meaning  it.    I'll  keep  an  eye  on  him!" 

And  once  or  twice  during  that  same  evening  he  felt  inclined 
to  speak  to  Errington  on  the  subject,  but  no  suitable  oppor- 
tunity presented  itself — and  after  a  while,  with  his  habitual 
indolence,  he  partly  forgot  the  circumstance. 

On  the  following  Sunday  afternoon  Thelma  sat  alone  under 
the  wide  blossom-covered  porch,  reading.  Her  father  and 
Sigurd — accompanied  by  Errington  and  his  friends — had  all 
gone  for  a  mountain  ramble,  promising  to  return  for  supper, 
a  substantial  meal  which  Britta  was  already  busy  preparing. 
The  afternoon  was  very  warm — one  of  those  long,  lazy 
stretches  of  heat  and  brilliancy  in  which  Nature  herself  seems 
to  have  lain  down  to  rest  like  a  child  tired  of  play,  sleeping  in 
the  sunshine  with  drooping  flowers  in  her  hands.  The  very 
ripple  of  the  stream  seemed  hushed,  and  Thelma,  though  her 
eyes  were  bent  seriously  on  the  book  she  held,  sighed  once  or 
twice  heavily  as  though  she  were  tired.  There  was  a  change 
in  the  girl — an  indefinable  something  seemed  to  have  passed 
over  her  and  toned  down  the  redundant  brightness  of  her 
beauty.  She  was  paler,  and  there  were  darker  shadows  than 
usual  under  the  splendor  of  her  eyes.  Her  very  attitude,  as 
she  leaned  her  head  against  the  dark,  fantastic  carving  of  the 
porch,  had  a  touch  of  listlessness  and  indifference  in  it;  her 
sweetly  arched  lips  drooped  with  a  plaintive  little  line  at  the 
comers,  and  her  whole  air  was  indicative  of  fatigue  mingled 
with  sadness.  She  looked  up  now  and  then  from  the  printed 
page,  and  her  gaze  wandered  over  the  stretch  of  the  scented, 
flower-filled  garden  to  the  little  silvery  glimmer  of  the  fjord, 
from  whence  arose,  like  delicate  black  streaks  against  the 
sky,  the  slender  masts  of  the  "Eulalie" — and  then  she  would 
resume  her  reading  with  a  slight  movement  of  impatience. 

The  volume  she  held  was  Victor  Hugo's  "Orientales,"  and 
though  her  sensitive  imagination  delighted  in  poetry  as  much 
as  in  sunshine,  she  found  it  for  once  hard  to  rivet  her  attention 
as  closely  as  she  wished  to  do  on  the  exquisite  wealth  of  lan- 
guage and  glow  of  color  that  distinguishes  the  writings  of  the 
Shakespeare  of  France.    Within  the  house  Britta  was  singing 


125  THELMA. 

cheerily  at  her  work,  and  the  sound  of  her  song  alone  disturbed 
the  silence.  Two  or  three  pale-blue  butterflies  danced  drowsi- 
ly in  and  out  a  cluster  of  honeysuckle  that  trailed  downward, 
nearly  toucliing  Thelma's  shoulder,  and  a  diminutive  black 
kitten,  with  a  pink  ribbon  round  its  neck,  sat  gravely  on  the 
garden  path,  washing  its  face  with  its  tiny  velvety  paws  in 
that  deliberate  and  precise  fashion  common  to  the  spoiled  and 
petted  members  of  its  class.  Everything  was  still  and  peace- 
ful as  became  a  Sunday  afternoon — so  that  when  the  sound  of 
a  heavy,  advancing  footstep  disturbed  the  intense  calm,  the 
girl  was  almost  nervously  startled,  and  rose  from  her  seat  with 
so  much  precipitation  that  the  butterflies,  who  had  possibly 
been  considering  whether  her  hair  might  not  be  some  new 
sort  of  sunflower,  took  fright  and  flew  far  upward,  and  the 
demure  kitten,  scared  out  of  its  absurd  self-consciousness, 
scrambled  hastily  up  the  nearest  little  tree.  The  intruder  on 
the  quietude  of  Guldmar's  domain  was  the  Eev.  Mr.  Dyce- 
worthy — and  as  Thelma,  standing  erect  in  the  porch,  beheld 
him  coming,  her  face  grew  stem  and  resolute,  and  her  eyes 
flashed  disdainfully. 

Ignoring  the  repellent,  almost  defiant  dignity  of  the  girl's 
attitude,  Mr.  Dyceworthy  advanced,  rather  out  of  breath  and 
somewhat  heated,  and  smiling  benevolently,  nodded  his  head 
by  way  of  greeting,  without  removing  his  hat. 

"Ah,  Froken  Thelma!"  he  observed,  condescendingly.  "And 
how  are  you  to-day?  You  look  remarkably  well — remarkably 
so,  indeed!"    And  he  eyed  her  with  mild  approval. 

"I  am  well,  I  thank  you,"  she  returned,  quietly.  "My  fath- 
er is  not  in,  Mr.  Dyceworthy." 

The  Eeverend  Charles  wiped  his  hot  face,  and  his  smile 
grew  wider. 

"What  matter?"  he  inquired,  blandly.  "We  shall,  no  doubt, 
entertain  ourselves  excellently  without  him!  It  is  with  you 
alone,  Froken,  that  I  am  desirous  to  hold  converse." 

And,  without  waiting  for  her  permission,  he  entered  the 
porch  and  settled  himself  comfortably  on  the  bench  opposite 
to  her,  heaving  a  sigh  of  relief  as  he  did  so.  Thelma  remained 
standing,  and  the  Lutheran  minister's  covetous  eye  glanced 
greedily  over  the  sweeping  curves  of  her  queenly  figure,  the 
dazzling  whiteness  of  her  slim,  arched  throat,  and  the  glitter 
of  her  rich  hair.  She  was  silent — and  there  was  something  in 
her  manner  as  she  confronted  him  that  made  it  difiicult  for 


THELMA.  127 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  to  speak.  He  hummed  and  hawed  several 
times,  and  settled  his  stiff  collar  once  or  twice  as  though  it 
hurt  him;  finally  he  said,  with  an  evident  effort: 

"I  have  found  a — a — trinket  of  yours — a  trifling  toy  which, 
perhaps,  you  would  be  glad  to  have  again."  And  he  drew 
carefully  out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket  a  small  parcel  wrapped 
up  in  tissue-paper,  which  he  undid  with  his  fat  fingers,  thus 
displaying  the  little  crucifix  he  had  kept  so  long  in  his  posses- 
sion. "Concerning  this,"  he  went  on,  holding  it  up  before 
her,  "I  am  grievously  troubled — and  would  fain  say  a  few 
necessary  words — " 

She  interrupted  him,  reaching  out  her  hand  for  the  cross  as 
she  spoke. 

"That  was  my  mother's  crucifix,"  she  said,  in  solemn,  in- 
finitely tender  accents,  with  a  mist  as  of  unshed  tears  in  her 
sweet  blue  eyes.  "It  was  round  her  neck  when  she  died.  I 
knew  I  had  lost  it,  and  was  very  unhappy  about  it.  I  do  thank 
you  with  all  my  heart  for  bringing  it  back  to  me!" 

And  the  hauteur  of  her  face  relaxed,  and  her  smile — that 
sudden  sweet  smile  of  hers — shone  forth  like  a  gleam  of  sun- 
shine athwart  a  cloud. 

Mr.  Dyceworthy 's  breath  came  and  went  with  curious  rapid- 
ity. His  visage  grew  pale,  and  a  clammy  dew  broke  out  upon 
his  forehead.  He  took  the  hand  she  held  out — a  fair,  soft 
hand  with  a  pink  palm  like  an  upcurled  shell — and  laid  the 
little  cross  within  it,  and  still  retaining  his  hold  of  her,  he 
stammeringly  observed: 

"Then  we  are  friends,  Froken  Thelma! — good  friends,  I 
hope?" 

She  withdrew  her  fingers  quickly  from  his  hot,  moist  clasp, 
and  her  bright  smile  vanished. 

"I  do  not  see  that  at  all!"  she  replied,  frigidly.  "Friend- 
ship is  very  rare.  To  be  friends,  one  must  have  similar  tastes 
and  sympathies — many  things  which  we  have  not — and  which 
we  shall  never  have.    I  am  slow  to  call  any  person  my  friend." 

Mr.  Dyceworthy's  small,  pursy  mouth  drew  itself  into  a 
tight,  thin  line. 

"Except,"  he  said,  with  a  suave  sneer,  "except  when  'any 
person'  happens  to  be  a  rich  Englishman  with  a  handsome 
face  and  easy  manners! — then  you  are  not  slow  to  make 
friends,  Froken — on  the  contrary,  you  are  remarkably  quick!" 


128  THELMA. 

The  cold,  haughty  stare  with  which  the  girl  favored  him 
might  have  frozen  a  less  conceited  man  to  a  pillar  of  ice. 

"What  do  you  mean/'  she  asked  abruptly,  and  with  an  air 
of  surprise. 

The  minister's  little  ferret-like  eyes  dropped  under  their 
puffy  Uds,  and  he  fidgeted  on  the  seat  with  uncomfortable  em- 
barrassment.   He  answered  her  in  the  mildest  of  mild  voices. 

"You  are  unlike  yourself,  my  dear  Fro  ken!"  he  said,  with  a 
soothing  gesture  of  one  of  his  well-trimmed  white  hands. 
"You  are  generally  frank  and  open,  but  to-day  I  find  you  just 
a  little — well! — what  shall  I  say — secretive?  Yes,  we  will  call 
it  secretive!  Oh,  fy!"  and  Mr.  Dyeeworthy  laughed  a  gentle 
little  laugh;  "you  must  not  pretend  ignorance  of  what  I  mean! 
All  the  neighborhood  is  talking  of  you  and  the  gentlemen  you 
are  so  often  seen  with.  ISTotably  concerning  Sir  Philip  Erring- 
ton — the  evil  tongue  of  rumor  is  busy — for,  according  to  his 
first  plans,  when  his  yacht  arrived  here,  he  was  bound  for 
the  North  Cape — and  should  have  gone  there  days  ago.  Tru- 
ly, I  think — and  there  are  others  who  think  also  in  the  same 
spirit  of  interest  for  you — that  the  sooner  this  young  man 
leaves  our  peaceful  fjord  the  better — and  the  less  he  has  to 
do  with  the  maidens  of  the  district,  the  safer  we  shall  be 
from  the  risk  of  scandal."    And  he  heaved  a  pious  sigh. 

Thelma  turned  her  eyes  upon  him  in  wonderment. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  said,  coldly.  "Why  do  you 
speak  of  others?  No  others  are  interested  in  what  I  do.  Why 
should  they  be?    Why  should  you  be?    There  is  no  need!" 

Mr.  Dyeeworthy  grew  slightly  excited.  He  felt  like  a  run- 
ner nearing  the  winning-post. 

"Oh,  you  wrong  yourself,  my  dear  Froken,"  he  murmured, 
softly,  with  a  sickly  attempt  at  tenderness  in  his  tone.  "You 
really  wrong  yourself!  It  is  impossible — for  me,  at  least — not 
to  be  interested  in  you — even  for  our  dear  Lord's  sake.  It 
troubles  me  to  the  inmost  depths  of  my  soul  to  behold  in  you 
one  of  the  foolish  virgins  whose  light  hath  been  extinguished 
for  lack  of  the  saving  oil — to  see  you  wandering  as  a  lost  sheep 
in  the  paths  of  darkness  and  error,  without  a  hand  to  rescue 
your  steps  from  the  near  and  dreadful  precipice!  Ay,  truly! 
my  spirit  yeameth  for  you  as  a  mother  for  an  own  babe — fain 
would  I  save  you  from  the  devices  of  the  Evil  One — fain  would 
1—"  here  the  minister  drew  out  his  handkerchief  and  pressed 
it  lightly  to  his  eyes — then,  as  if  with  an  effort,  overcoming 


THELMA.  129 

his  emotion,  he  added,  with  the  gravity  of  a  butcher  present- 
ing an  extortionate  bill,  "But  first — before  my  own  humble 
desires  for  your  salvation — first,  ere  I  go  further  in  converse, 
it  behooveth  me  to  enter  on  the  Lord's  business!" 

Thelma  bent  her  head  shghtly,  with  an  air  as  though  she 
said,  "Indeed;  pray  do  not  be  long  about  it!"  And,  leaning 
back  against  the  porch,  she  waited  somewhat  impatiently. 

"The  image  I  have  just  restored  to  you,"  went  on  Mr.  Dyce- 
worthy,  in  his  most  pompous  and  ponderous  manner,  "you  say 
belonged  to  your  unhappy  mother — " 

"She  was  not  unhappy,"  interposed  the  girl,  calmly. 

"Ay,  ay!"  and  the  minister  nodded  with  a  superior  air  of 
wisdom.  "So  you  imagine,  so  you  think — you  must  have 
been  too  young  to  judge  of  these  things.    She  died — " 

"I  saw  her  die,"  again  she  interrupted,  with  a  musing  ten- 
derness in  her  voice.  "She  smiled  and  kissed  me — then  she 
laid  her  thin  white  hand  on  this  crucifix,  and  closing  her  eyes, 
she  went  to  sleep.  They  told  me  it  was  death;  since  then  I 
have  known  that  death  is  beautiful!" 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  coughed — a  little  cough  of  quiet  incredu- 
lity. He  was  not  fond  of  sentiment  in  any  form,  and  the 
girl's  dreamy,  pensive  manner  annoyed  him.  Death  "beauti- 
ful"? Faugh!  it  was  the  one  thing  of  all  others  that  he 
dreaded;  it  was  an  unpleasant  necessity  concerning  which  he 
thought  as  little  as  possible.  Though  he  preached  frequently 
on  the  peace  of  the  grave  and  the  joys  of  heaven,  he  was  far 
from  believing  in  either — he  was  nervously  terrified  of  illness, 
and  fled  like  a  frightened  hare  from  the  very  rumor  of  any  in- 
fectious disorder,  and  he  had  never  been  known  to  attend  a 
death-bed.  And  now,  in  answer  to  Thelma,  he  nodded  piously 
and  rubbed  his  hands,  and  said: 

"Yes,  yes;  no  doubt,  no  doubt!  All  very  proper  on  your 
part,  I  am  sure!  But  concerning  this  same  image  of  which  I 
came  to  speak — it  is  most  imperative  that  you  should  be 
brought  to  recognize  it  as  a  purely  carnal  object,  unfitting  a 
maiden's  eyes  to  rest  upon.  The  true  followers  of  the  Gospel 
are  those  who  strive  to  forget  the  sufferings  of  our  dear  Lord 
as  much  as  possible — or  to  think  of  them  only  in  spirit.  The 
minds  of  sinners,  alas!  are  easily  influenced — and  it  is  both 
unseemly  and  dangerous  to  gaze  freely  upon  the  carved  sem- 
blance of  the  Lord's  limbs!  Yea,  truly,  it  hath  oft  been  con- 
sidered as  damnatory  to  the  soul — more  especially  in  the  cases 
9 


130  THELMA. 

of  women  mmmred  as  nuns,  who  encourage  themselves  in  an 
undue  familiarity  with  our  Lord  by  gazing  long  and  earnestly 
upon  his  body  nailed  to  the  accursed  tree." 

Here  Mr.  Dyceworthy  paused  for  breath.  Thelma  was  si- 
lent, but  a  faint  smile  gleamed  on  her  face, 

"therefore,"  he  went  on,  ''I  do  abjure  you,  as  you  desire 
grace  and  redemption,  to  utterly  cast  from  you  the  vile  trinket 
I  have — Heaven  knows  how  reluctantly! — returned  to  your 
keeping — to  trample  upon  it,  and  renounce  it  as  a  device  of 
Satan — "  He  stopped,  surprised  and  indignant,  as  she  raised 
the  much-abused  emblem  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it  reverently. 

''Tt  is  the  sign  of  peace  and  salvation,''  she  said,  steadily; 
"to  me,  at  least.  You  waste  your  words,  Mr.  Dyceworthy; 
I  am  a  Catholic." 

"Oh,  say  not  so!"  exclaimed  the  minister,  now  thoroughly 
roused  to  a  pitch  of  unctuous  enthusiasm.  "Say  not  so!  Poor 
child!  who  knowest  not  the  meaning  of  the  word  used.  Cath- 
olic signifies  universal.  God  forbid  a  imiversal  papacy!  You 
are  not  Catholic — no!  You  are  a  Eoman — by  which  name 
we  understand  all  that  is  most  loathsome  and  unpleasing  tmto 
God!  But  I  will  wrestle  for  your  soul — yea,  night  and  day 
will  I  bend  my  spiritual  sinews  to  the  task — I  will  obtain  the 
victory — I  will  exorcise  the  fiend!  Alas,  alas!  you  are  on  the 
brink  of  hell — think  of  it!"  and  Mr.  Dyceworthy  stretched  out 
his  hand  with  his  favorite  ptdpit  gesture,  "Think  of  the 
roasting  and  burning — the  scorching  and  withering  of  souls! 
Imagine,  if  you  can,  the  hopeless,  bitter,  eternal  damnation" 
— and  here  he  smacked  his  lips  as  though  he  were  tasting 
something  excellent — "from  which  there  is  no  escape! — for 
which  there  shall  be  no  remedy!" 

"It  is  a  gloomy  picture,"  said  Thelma,  with  a  quiet  sparkle 
in  her  eye.  'T.  am  sorry — for  you.  But  I  am  happier — my 
faith  teaches  of  purgatory — there  is  always  a  little  hope!" 

"There  is  none,  there  is  none!"  exclaimed  the  minister,  ris- 
ing in  excitement  from  his  seat,  and  swaying  ponderously  to 
and  fro  as  he  gesticulated  with  hands  and  head.  "You'  are 
doomed — doomed!  There  is  no  middle  course  between  hell 
and  heaven.  It  must  be  one  thing  or  the  other;  God  deals  not 
in  half  measures!  Pause,  oh,  pause!  ere  you  decide  to  fall! 
Even  at  the  latest  hour  the  Lord  desires  to  save  your  soul — 
the  Lord  yearns  for  your  redemption,  and  maketh  me  to  yearn 
also,     Froken  Thelma!"  and  Mr.  Dyceworthy's  voice  deep- 


THELMA.  131 

ened  in  solemnity,  "there  is  a  way  which  the  Lord  hath  whis- 
pered in  mine  ears — a  way  that  pointeth  to  the  white  robe  and 
the  crown  of  glory — a  way  by  which  you  shall  possess  the  in- 
ner peace  of  the  heart  with  bliss  on  earth  as  the  forerunner  of 
bliss  in  heaven!" 

She  looked  at  him  steadfastly,  "And  that  way  is — what?" 
she  inquired. 

lilr.  Dyceworthy  hesitated,  and  wished  with  all  his  heart 
that  this  girl  was  not  so  thoroughly  self-possessed.  Any  sign 
of  timidity  in  her  would  have  given  him  an  increase  of  hardi- 
hood. But  her  eyes  were  coldly  brilliant,  and  glanced  him 
over  without  the  smallest  embarrassment.  He  took  refuge  in 
his  never-faiUng  remedy,  his  benevolent  smile — a  smile  that 
covered  a  multitude  of  hypocrisies. 

"You  ask  a  plain  question,  Froken,"  he  said,  sweetly,  "and 
I  should  be  loath  not  to  give  you  a  plain  answer.  That  way — 
that  glorious  way  of  salvation  for  you  is — through  me!" 

And  his  countenance  shone  with  self-satisfaction  as  he 
spoke,  and  he  repeated,  softlv:  "Yes,  yes;  that  way  is  through 
me!" 

She  moved  with  a  slight  gesture  of  impatience.  'TLt  is  a 
pity  to  talk  any  more,'*  she  said,  rather  wearily.  "It  is  all  no 
use!  Why  do  you  wish  to  change  me  in  my  reUgion?  I  do 
not  wish  to  change  you.  I  do  not  see  why  we  should  speak  of 
such  things  at  all." 

"Of  course!"  replied  Mr.  Dyceworthy,  blandly.  "'Of  course 
you  do  not  see.    And  why?    Because  you  are  blind." 

Here  he  drew  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  looked  covetously 
at  the  curve  of  her  full,  firm  waist. 

"Oh,  why!"  he  resumed  in  a  sort  of  rapture — "why  should 
we  say  it  is  a  pity  to  talk  any  more?  Why  should  we  say  it  is 
all  no  use?  It  is  of  use — it  is  noble,  it  is  edifying  to  converse 
of  the  Lord's  good  pleasure!  And  what  is  His  good  pleasure 
at  this  moment?  To  unite  two  souls  in  His  service!  Yea,  He 
hath  turned  my  desire  toward  you,  Froken  Thelma — even  as 
Japob's  desire  was  toward  Rachel!  Let  me  see  this  hand!" 
He  made  a  furtive  grab  at  the  white  taper  fingers  that  played 
listlessly  with  the  jasmine  leaves  on  the  porch,  but  the  girl 
dextrously  withdrew  them  from  his  clutch  and  moved  a  little 
further  back,  her  face  flushing  proudly.  "Oh,  will  it  not 
come  to  me?  Cruel  hand!"  and  he  rolled  his  little  eyes  with 
an  absurdlv  sentimental  air  of  reproach.    "It  is  shy — it  will 


132  THELMA. 

not  clasp  the  hand  of  its  protector!  Do  not  be  afraid,  Froken! 
— I,  Charles  Dyceworthy,  am  not  the  man  to  trifle  with  your 
young  affections!  Let  them  rest  where  they  have  flown!  I 
accept  them!  Yea — in  spite  of  wrath  and  error  and  moral 
destitution — my  spirit  inclineth  toward  you — in  the  language 
of  carnal  men,  I  love  you!  More  than  this,  I  am  willing  to 
take  you  as  my  lawful  wife — " 

He  broke  off  abruptly,  somew-hat  startled  at  the  bitter  scorn 
of  the  flashing  eyes  that,  like  two  quivering  stars,  were  blaz- 
ing upon  him.  Her  voice,  clear  as  a  bell  ringing  in  frosty  air, 
cut  through  the  silence  like  the  sweep  of  a  sword-blade. 

"How  dare  you!"  she  said,  with  a  wrathful  thrill  in  her  low, 
intense  tones.    "How  dare  you  come  here  to  insult  me!" 

Insult  her!  He — the  Reverend  Charles  Dyceworthy — con- 
sidered guilty  of  insult  in  offering  honorable  marriage  to  a 
mere  farmer's  daughter!  He  could  not  believe  his  own  ears — 
and  in  his  astonishment  he  looked  up  at  her.  Looking,  he 
recoiled  and  shrunk  into  himself,  like  a  convicted  "knave  before 
some  queenly  accuser.  The  whole  form  of  the  girl  seemed  to 
dilate  with  indignation.  From  her  proud  mouth,  arched  like 
a  bow,  sprung  barbed  arrows  of  scorn  that  flew  straightly  and 
struck  home. 

"Always  I  have  guessed  what  you  wanted,"  she  went  on,  in 
that  deep,  vibrating  tone  which  had  such  a  rich  quiver  of 
anger  within  it;  "but  I  never  thought  you  would — "  She 
paused,  and  a  little  disdainful  laugh  broke  from  her  lips. 
"You  would  make  me  your  wife — me?  You  think  me  likely  to 
accept  such  an  offer?"  And  she  drew  herself  up  with  a  superb 
gesture,  and  regarded  him  fixedly. 

"Oh,  pride,  pride!"  murmured  the  unabashed  Dyceworthy, 
recovering  from  the  momentary  abasement  into  which  he  had 
been  thrown  by  her  look  and  manner.  "How  it  overcometh 
our  natures  and  mastereth  our  spirit!  My  dear,  my  dearest 
Froken — I  fear  you  do  not  understand  me!  Yet  it  is  natural 
that  you  should  not;  you  were  not  prepared  for  the  offer  of 
my — my  affections" — and  he  beamed  all  over  with  benevolence 
— "and  I  can  appreciate  a  maidenly  and  becoming  coyness, 
even  though  it  assume  the  form  of  a  repellant  and  unreason- 
able anger.  But  take  courage,  my — my  dear  girl! — our  Lord 
forbid  that  I  should  wantonly  play  with  the  delicate  emotions 
of  your  heart!  Poor  little  heart!  does  it  flutter?"  and  Mr. 
Dyceworthy  leered  sweetly.     "I  will  give  it  time  to  recover 


THELMA.  183 

itself!  Yes,  yes!  a  little  time!  and  then  you  will  put  that 
pretty  hand  in  mine" — here  he  drew  nearer  to  her — "and  with 
one  kiss  we  will  seal  the  compact!" 

And  he  attempted  to  steal  his  arm  around  her  waist,  but  the 
girl  sprang  back  indignantly,  and  pulling  down  a  thick  branch 
of  the  clambering  prickly  roses  from  the  porch,  held  it  in  front 
of  her  by  way  of  protection.  Mr.  Dyceworthy  laughed  indul- 
gently. 

"Very  pretty — very  pretty  indeed!"  he  mildly  observed, 
eying  her  as  she  stood  at  bay  barricaded  by  the  roses.  "Quite 
a  picture!  There,  there!  do  not  be  frightened — such  shyness 
is  very  natural!  We  will  embrace  in  the  Lord  another  day! 
In  the  meantime  one  little  word — the  word — will  suffice  me — 
yea,  even  one  little  smile — to  show  me  that  you  understand 
my  words — that  you  love  me" — here  he  clasped  his  plump 
hands  together  in  flabby  ecstasy — "even  as  you  are  loved!" 

His  absurd  attitude — the  weak,  knock-kneed  manner  in 
which  his  clumsy  legs  seemed,  from  the  force  of  sheer  senti- 
ment, to  bend  under  his  weighty  body,  and  the  inanely  ama- 
tory expression  of  his  puffy  countenance  would  have  excited 
most  women  to  laughter — and  Thelma  was  perfectly  conscious 
of  his  utterly  ridiculous  appearance,  but  she  was  too  thorough- 
ly indignant  to  take  the  matter  in  a  humorous  light. 

"Love  you!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  movement  of  irrepres- 
sible loathing.  "You  must  be  mad!  I  would  rather  die  than 
marry  you!" 

Mr.  Dyceworthy's  face  grew  livid  and  his  little  eyes  spark- 
led vindictively;  but  he  restrained  his  inward  rage,  and  mere- 
ly smiled,  rubbing  his  hands  softly  one  against  the  other. 

"Let  us  be  calm!"  he  said,  soothingly.  "Whatever  we  do, 
let  us  be  calm!  Let  us  not  provoke  one  another  to  wrath! 
Above  all  things,  let  us,  in  a  spirit  of  charity  and  patience, 
reason  out  this  matter  without  undue  excitement.  My  ears 
have  most  painfully  heard  your  last  words,  which,  taken  liter- 
ally, might  mean  that  you  reject  my  honorable  ofi:er.  The 
question  is,  do  they  mean  this?  I  can  not — I  will  not  believe 
that  you  would  foolishly  stand  in  the  way  of  your  own  salva- 
tion"— and  he  shook  his  head  with  doleful  gentleness.  "More- 
over, Froken  Thelma,  though  it  sorely  distresses  me  to  speak 
of  it — ^it  is  my  duty,  as  a  minister  of  the  Lord,  to  remind  you 
that  an  honest  marriage — a  marriage  of  virtue  and  respect- 


134  THELMA. 

ability  such  as  I  propose,  is  the  only  way  to  restore  your  rep- 
utation— which,  alas!  is  sorely  damaged,  and — " 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  stopped  abruptly,  a  little  alarmed,  as  she 
suddenly  cast  aside  her  barrier  of  roses  and  advanced  toward 
him,  her  blue  eyes  blazing. 

"My  reputation!"  she  said,  haughtily.    "Who  speaks  of  it?" 

"Oh,  dear,  dear  me!"  moaned  the  minister,  pathetically. 
"Sad! — very  sad — to  see  so  ungovernable  a  temper — so  wild 
and  untrained  a  disposition!  Alas,  alas!  how  frail  we  are  with- 
out the  Lord's  support — without  the  strong  staff  of  the  Lord's 
mercy  to  lean  upon!  Not  I,  my  poor  child,  not  I,  but 
the  whole  village  speaks  of  you;  to  you  the  ignorant  people 
attribute  all  the  sundry  evils  that  of  late  have  fallen  sorely 
upon  them — bad  harvests,  ill-luck  with  the  fishing,  poverty, 
sickness" — here  Mr.  Dyceworthy  pressed  the  tips  of  his  fin- 
gers delicately  together,  and  looked  at  her  with  a  benevolent 
compassion — "and  they  call  it  a  withcraft — yes!  strange,  very 
strange!  But  so  it  is — ignorant  as  they  are,  such  ignorance 
is  not  easily  enlightened — and  though  I,"  he  sighed,  "have 
done  my  poor  best  to  disabuse  their  minds  of  the  suspicions 
against  you,  I  find  it  is  a  matter  in  which  I,  though  an  humble 
mouthpiece  of  the  Gospel,  am  powerless — quite  powerless!" 

She  relaxed  her  defiant  attitude,  and  moved  away  from  him; 
the  shadow  of  a  smile  was  on  her  lips. 

"It  is  not  my  fault  if  the  people  are  foolish,"  she  said, 
coldly;  "I  have  never  done  harm  to  any  one  that  I  know  of." 
And  turning  abruptly,  she  seemed  about  to  enter  the  house, 
but  the  minister  dextrously  placed  himself  in  her  way,  and 
barred  her  passage. 

"Stay,  oh  stay!"  he  exclaimed,  with  unctuous  fervor. 
"Pause,  unfortunate  girl,  ere  you  reject  the  strong  shield  and 
buckler  that  the  Lord  has,  in  His  great  mercy,  offered  you  in 
my  person!  For  I  must  warn  you — Froken  Thelma,  I  must 
warn  you  seriously  of  the  danger  you  run!  I  will  not  pain 
you  by  referring  to  the  grave  charges  brought  against  your 
father,  who  is,  alas!  in  spite  of  my  spiritual  wrestling  with 
the  Lord  for  his  sake,  still  no  better  than  a  heathen  savage; 
no!  I  will  say  nothing  of  this.  But  what — what  shall  I  say" — 
here  he  lowered  his  voice  to  a  tone  of  mysterious  and  weighty 
reproach — "what  shall  I  say  of  your  most  unseemly  and  indis- 
creet companionship  with  these  worldly  young  men  who  are 
visiting  the  fjord  for  their  idle  pastime?    Ah,    dear,    dear! 


THELMA.  135 

This  is  indeed  a  heavy  scandal  and  a  sore  burden  to  my  soul — 
for  up  to  this  time  I  have,  in  spite  of  many  faults  in  your  dis- 
position, considered  you  were  at  least  of  a  most  maidenly  and 
decorous  deportment — but  now — now!  to  think  that  you 
should,  of  your  own  free  will  and  choice,  consent  to  be  the 
plaything  of  this  idle  stroller  from  the  wicked  haunts  of  fash- 
ion— the  hour's  toy  of  this  Sir  Philip  Errington!  Froken 
Thelma,  I  would  never  have  believed  it  of  you!"  And  he 
drew  himself  up  with  ponderous  and  sorrowful  dignity. 

A  burning  blush  had  covered  Thelma's  face  at  the  mention 
of  Errington's  name,  but  it  soon  faded,  leaving  her  very  pale, 
She  changed  her  position  so  that  she  confronted  Mr.  Dyee- 
worthy — her  clear  blue  eyes  regarded  him  steadfastly. 

"Is  this  what  is  said  of  me?"  she  asked,  calmly. 

"It  is — it  is,  most  unfortunately!"  returned  the  minister, 
shaking  his  bullet-like  head  a  great  many  times;  then,  with  a 
sort  of  elephantine  cheerfulness,  he  added:  "But  what  mat- 
ter? There  is  time  to  remedy  these  things.  I  am  willing  to 
set  myself  as  a  strong  barrier  against  the  evil  noises  of  rumor! 
Am  I  selfish  or  ungenerous?  The  Lord  forbid  it!  No  matter 
how  I  am  compromised,  no  matter  how  I  am  misjudged — I 
am  still  willing  to  take  you  as  my  lawful  wife,  Froken  Thelma 
— but,"  and  here  he  shook  his  forefinger  at  her  with  a  pre- 
tended playfulness,  "I  will  permit  no  more  converse  with  Sir 
Philip  Errington;  no,  no!  I  can  not  allow  it! — I  can  not, 
indeed!" 

She  still  looked  straight  at  him — her  bosom  rose  and  fell 
rapidly  with  her  passionate  breath,  and  there  was  such  an 
eloquent  breath  of  scorn  in  her  face  that  he  winced  under  it  as 
though  struck  by  a  sharp  scourge. 

"You  are  not  worth  my  anger!"  she  said,  slowly,  this  time 
without  a  tremor  in  her  rich  voice.  "One  must  have  some- 
thing to  be  angry  with,  and  you — you  are  nothing!  Neither 
man  nor  beast — for  men  are  brave,  and  beasts  tell  no  lies! 
Your  wife!  I!"  and  she  laughed  aloud — then  with  a  gesture 
of  command:  "Go!"  she  exclaimed,  "and  never  let  me  see 
your  face  again!" 

The  clear,  scornful  laughter — the  air  of  absolute  authority 
with  which  she  spoke — would  have  stung  the  most  self-opin- 
ionated of  men,  even  though  his  conscience  were  enveloped 
in  a  moral  leather  casing  of  hypocrisy  and  arrogance.  And, 
notwithstanding  his  invariable  air  of  mildness,   Mr.  Dyce- 


136  THELrMA. 

worthy  had  a  temper.  That  temper  rose  to  a  white  heat  just 
now — every  drop  of  blood  receded  from  his  countenance — and 
his  soft  hands  clinched  themselves  in  a  particularly  ugly  and 
threatening  manner.  Yet  he  managed  to  preserve  his  suave 
composure. 

"Alas,  alas!"  he  murmured.  "How  sorely  my  soul  is  af- 
flicted to  see  you  thus,  Froken!  I  am  amazed — I  am  dis- 
tressed! Such  language  from  your  lips!  oh,  fy,  fy!  And  has 
it  come  to  this!  And  must  I  resign  the  hope  I  had  of  saving 
your  poor  soul?  and  must  I  withdraw  my  spiritual  protection 
from  you?"  This  he  asked  with  a  suggestive  sneer  on  his  prim 
mouth— and  then  continued:  "I  must— alas,  I  must!  My 
conscience  will  not  permit  me  to  do  more  than  pray  for  you! 
And  as  is  my  duty,  I  shall,  in  a  spirit  of  forbearance  and  char- 
ity, speak  warningly  to  Sir  Philip  concerning — " 

But  Thelma  did  not  permit  him  to  finish  his  sentence.  She 
sprung  forward  like  a  young  leopardess,  and  with  a  magnifi- 
cent outward  sweep  of  her  arm  motioned  him  down  the  garden 
path. 

"Out  of  my  sight — coward!"  she  cried,  and  then  stood  wait- 
ing for  him  to  obey  her,  her  whole  frame  vibrating  with  in- 
dignation like  a  harp  struck  too  roughly.  She  looked  so 
terribly  beautiful,  and  there  was  such  a  suggestive  power  in 
that  extended  bare  white  arm  of  hers  that  the  minister, 
though  quaking  from  head  to  heel  with  disappointment  and 
resentment,  judged  it  prudent  to  leave  her. 

"Certainly,  I  will  take  my  departure,  Froken!"  he  said, 
meekly,  while  his  teeth  glimmered  wolfishly  through  his  pale 
lips,  in  a  snarl  more  than  a  smile.  "It  is  best  you  should  be 
alone  to  recover  yourself — from  this — this  undue  excitement! 
I  shall  not  repeat  my — my — offer;  but  I  am  sure  your  good 
sense  wall — in  time — show  you  how  very  unjust  and  hasty  you 
have  been  in  this  matter — and — and  you  will  be  sorry!  Yes, 
indeed!  I  am  quite  sure  you  will  be  sorry!  I  wish  you  good- 
day,  Froken  Thelma!" 

She  made  him  no  reply,  and  he  turned  from  the  house  and 
left  her,  strolling  down  the  flower-bordered  path  as  though  he 
were  in  the  best  of  all  possible  moods  with  himself  and  the 
universe.  But,  in  truth,  he  muttered  a  heavy  oath  under  his 
breath — an  oath  that  was  by  no  means  in  keeping  with  his 
godly  and  peaceful  disposition.  Once,  as  he  walked,  he  looked 
back,  and  saw  the  woman  he  coveted  now  more  than  ever. 


THELMA.  137 

standing  erect  in  the  porch,  tall,  fair,  and  royal  in  her  attitude, 
looking  like  some  proud  empress  who  had  just  dismissed  an 
unworthy  vassal.  A  farmer's  daughter!  and  she  had  refused 
Mr.  Dyceworthy  with  disdain!  He  had  much  ado  to  prevent 
himself  shaking  his  fist  at  lier! 

"The  lofty  shall  be  laid  low,  and  the  stiff-necked  shall  be 
humbled,"  he  thought,  as  with  a  vicious  switch  of  his  stick  he 
struck  off  a  fragrant  head  of  purple  clover.  "Conceited  fool 
of  a  girl!  Hopes  to  be  'my  lady,'  does  she?  She  had  better 
take  care!" 

Here  he  stopped  abruptly  in  his  walk  as  if  a  thought  had 
struck  him — a  malignant  joy  sparkled  in  his  eyes,  and  he 
flourished  his  stick  triumphantly  in  the  air.  "I'll  have  her 
yet!"  he  exclaimed,  half  aloud.  "I'll  set  Lovisa  on  her!" 
And  his  countenance  cleared;  he  quickened  his  pace  lik©  a 
man  having  some  pressing  business  to  fulfill,  and  was  soon  in 
his  boat,  rowing  toward  Bosekop  with  unaccustomed  speed 
and  energy. 

Meanwhile  Thelma  stood  motionless  where  he  had  left  her; 
she  watched  the  retreating  form  of  her  portly  suitor  till  he  had 
altogether  disappeared,  then  she  pressed  one  hand  on  her 
bosom,  sighed,  and  laughed  a  little.  Glancing  at  the  crucifix 
so  lately  restored  to  her,  she  touched  it  with  her  lips  and  fast- 
ened it  to  a  small  silver  chain  she  wore,  and  then  a  shadow 
crept  over  her  fair  face  that  made  it  strangely  sad  and  weary. 
Her  lips  quivered  pathetically;  she  shaded  her  eyes  with  her 
curved  fingers  as  though  the  sunlight  hurt  her — then  with 
faltering  steps  she  turned  away  from  the  warm  stretch  of  gar- 
den, brilliant  with  blossom,  and  entered  the  house.  There 
was  a  sense  of  outrage  and  insult  upon  her,  and  though  in  her 
soul  she  treated  Mr.  Dyceworthy's  observations  with  the  con- 
tempt they  deserved,  his  coarse  allusion  to  Sir  Philip  Erring- 
ton  had  wounded  her  more  than  she  cared  to  admit  to  herself. 

Once  in  the  quiet  sitting-room,  she  threw  herself  on  her 
knees  by  her  father's  arm-chair,  and  laying  her  proud  little 
golden  head  down  on  her  folded  arms,  she  broke  into  a  passion 
of  silent  tears. 

Who  shall  unravel  the  mystery  of  a  woman's  weeping?  Who 
shall  declare  whether  it  is  a  pain  or  a  relief  to  the  overcharged 
heart?  The  dignity  of  a  crowned  queen  is  capable  of  utterly 
dissolving  and  disappearing  in  a  shower  of  tears,  when  Love's 
burning  finger  touches  the  pulse  and  marks  ite  slow  or  rapid 


123  THBLMA. 

beatings.  And  Thelma  wept  as  many  of  her  sex  weep,  with- 
out knowing  why,  save  that  all  suddenly  she  felt  herself  most 
lonely  and  forlorn  like  Sainte  Beuve's — 

"Colombe  gemissante, 
Qui  demande  par  pitiS 

Sa  moiti6, 
Sa  moiti6  loin  d'elle  absente!" 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"A  wicked  will, 
A  woman's  will;  a  cankered  grandam's  will!" 

King  John. 

"By  Jove!" 

And  Lorimer,  after  uttering  this  unmeaning  exclamation, 
was  silent  out  of  sheer  dismay.  He  stood  hesitating  and  look- 
ing in  at  the  door  of  the  Guldmars'  sitting-room,  and  the 
alarming  spectacle  he  saw  was  the  queenly  Thelma  down  on 
the  floor  in  an  attitude  of  grief — Thelma  giving  way  to  little 
smothered  sobs  of  distress — Thelma  actually  crying!  He 
drew  a  long  breath  and  stared,  utterly  bewildered.  It  was  a 
sight  for  which  he  was  unprepared — he  was  not  accustomed  to 
women's  tears.  What  should  he  do?  Should  he  cough  gently 
to  attract  her  attention,  or  should  he  retire  on  tiptoe  and  leave 
her  to  indulge  her  grief  as  long  as  she  would,  without  making 
any  attempt  to  console  her?  The  latter  course  seemed  almost 
brutal,  yet  he  was  nearly  deciding  upon  it,  when  a  slight  creak 
of  the  door  against  which  he  leaned  caused  her  to  look  up 
suddenly.  Seeing  him,  she  rose  quickly  from  her  desponding 
position  and  faced  him,  her  cheeks  somewhat  deeply  flushed 
and  her  eyes  glittering  feverishly. 

"Mr.  Lorimer!"  she  exclaimed,  forcing  a  faint  smile  to  her 
quivering  lips.    "You  here?    Why,  where  are  the  others?" 

"They  are  coming  on  after  me,"  replied  Lorimer,  advancing 
into  the  room  and  diplomatically  ignoring  the  girl's  efforts  to 
hide  the  tears  that  still  threatened  to  have  their  way.  "But 
I  was  sent  in  advance  to  tell  you  not  to  be  frightened.  There 
has  been  a  slight  accident — " 

She  grew  very  pale.  "Is  it  my  father?"  she  asked,  trem- 
blingly.   "Sir  Philip— " 


THELMA.  139 

''No,  no!"  answered  Lorimer,  reassuringly,  "It  is  nothing 
serious,  really,  upon  my  honor!  Your  father's  all  right — so  is 
Phil — our  lively  friend  Pierre  is  the  victim.  The  fact  is,  we've 
had  some  trouble  with  Sigurd.  I  can't  think  what  has  come 
to  the  boy!  He  was  as  amiable  as  possible  when  we  started, 
but  after  we  had  climbed  about  half-way  up  the  mountain,  he 
took  it  into  his  head  to  throw  stones  about  rather  recklessly. 
It  was  only  fun,  he  said.  Your  father  tried  to  make  him  leave 
off,  but  he  was  obstinate.  At  last,  in  a  particularly  bright 
access  of  playfulness,  he  got  hold  of  a  large  flint  and  nearly 
put  Phil's  eye  out  with  it — Phil  dodged  it,  and  it  flew  straight 
at  Duprez,  splitting  open  his  cheek  in  rather  an  unbecoming 
fashion —  Don't  look  so  horrified.  Miss  Gruldmar — it  is  really 
nothing!" 

"Oh,  but  indeed  it  is  something!"  she  said,  with  true  wom- 
anly anxiety  in  her  voice.  "Poor  fellow!  I  am  so  sorry! 
Is  he  much  hurt?    Does  he  suffer?" 

"Pierre?  Oh,  no,  not  a  bit  of  it!  He's  as  jolly  as  possible! 
We  bandaged  him  up  in  a  very  artistic  fashion;  he  looks  quite 
interesting,  I  assure  you.  His  beauty's  spoiled  for  a  time, 
that's  all.  Phil  thought  you  might  be  alarmed  when  you  saw 
us  bringing  home  the  wounded — that  is  why  I  came  on  to  tell 
you  all  about  it." 

"But  what  can  be  the  matter  with  Sigurd?"  asked  the  girl, 
raising  her  hand  furtively  to  dash  off  a  few  tear-drops  that 
still  hung  on  her  long  lashes.    "And  where  is  he?" 

"Ah!  that  I  can't  tell  you!"  answered  Lorimer.  "He  is 
perfectly  incomprehensible  to-day.  As  soon  as  he  saw  the 
blood  flowing  from  Duprez's  cheek,  he  uttered  a  howl  as  if 
some  one  had  shot  him,  and  away  he  rushed  into  the  woods 
as  fast  as  he  could  go.  We  called  him,  and  shouted  his  name 
till  we  were  hoarse — all  no  use!  He  wouldn't  come  back.  I 
suppose  he'll  find  his  way  home  by  himself?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Thelma,  gravely.  "But  when  he  comes  I 
will  scold  him  very  much!  It  is  not  like  him  to  be  so  wild 
and  cruel.  He  will  understand  me  when  I  tell  him  how  wrong 
he  has  been." 

"Oh,  don't  break  his  heart,  poor  little  chap!"  said  Lorimer, 
easily.  "Your  father  has  given  him  a  terrible  scolding  already. 
He  hasn't  got  his  wits  about  him,  you  know — he  can't  help 
being  queer  sometimes.  But  what  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself  during  our  absence?"     And  he  regarded  her  with 


140  THELMA. 

friendly  scrutiny.  "You  were  crying  when  I  came  in.  Now, 
weren't  you?" 

She  met  his  gaze  quite  frankly.  "Yes!"  she  replied,  with  a 
plaintive  thrill  in  her  voice.  "I  could  not  help  it!  My  heart 
ached  and  the  tears  came.  Somehow  I  felt  that  everything 
was  wrong  and  that  it  was  all  my  fault — " 

"Your  fault!"  murmured  Lorimer,  astonished.  "My  dear 
Miss  Guldmar,  what  do  you  mean?    What  is  your  fault?" 

"Everything!"  she  answered,  sadly,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "I 
am  very  foolish;  and  I  am  sure  I  often  do  wrong  without 
meaning  it:  Mr.  Dyceworthy  has  been  here  and — "  she 
stopped  abruptly,  and  a  wave  of  color  flushed  her  face. 

Lorimer  laughed  lightly.  "Dyceworthy!"  he  exclaimed. 
"The  mystery  is  explained!  You  have  been  bored  by  'the 
good  seligious,'  as  Pierre  calls  him.  You  know  what  boring 
means  now,  Miss  Guldmar,  don't  you?"  She  smiled  slightly, 
and  nodded.  "The  first  time  you  visited  the  'Eulalie,'  you 
didn't  understand  the  word,  I  remember — ah!"  and  he  shook 
his  head — "if  you  were  in  London  society,  you'd  find  that  ex- 
pression very  convenient — ^it  would  come  to  your  lips  pretty 
frequently,  I  can  tell  you!" 

"I  shall  never  see  London,"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  resigned 
air.  "You  will  all  go  away  very  soon,  and  I — I  shall  be 
lonely — " 

She  bit  her  lips  in  quick  vexation,  as  her  blue  eyes  filled 
again  with  tears  in  spite  of  herself. 

Lorimer  turned  away  and  pulled  a  chair  to  the  open  window. 

"Come  and  sit  down  here,"  he  said,  invitingly.  "We  shall 
be  able  to  see  the  others  coming  down  the  hill.  Nothing  like 
fresh  air  for  blowing  away  the  blues."  Then,  as  she  obeyed 
him,  he  added:    "What  has  Dyceworthy  been  saying  to  you?" 

"He  told  me  I  was  wicked,"  she  murmured,  "and  that  all 
the  people  here  think  very  badly  of  me.  But  that  was  not  the 
worst" — and  a  little  shudder  passed  over  her — "there  was 
something  else — something  that  made  me  very  angry — so 
angry!" — and  here  she  raised  her  eyes  with  a  gravely  penitent 
air — "Mr.  Lorimer,  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  had  so  bad  and 
fierce  a  temper  before!" 

"Good  gracious!"  exclaimed  Lorimer,  with  a  broad  smile. 
"You  alarm  me.  Miss  Guldmar!  I  had  no  idea  you  were  a  'bad, 
fierce'  person — I  shall  get  afraid  of  you — I  shall,  really!" 


THELMA.  141 

"Ah,  you  laugh!"  and  she  spoke  half  reproachfully.  "You 
will  not  be  serious  for  one  little  moment!" 

"Yes,  I  will!  Now  look  at  me,"  and  he  assumed  a  solemn 
expression,  and  drew  himself  up  with  an  air  of  dignity.  "I 
am  all  attention!  Consider  me  your  father-confessor,  Miss 
Guldmar,  and  explain  the  reason  of  this  'bad,  fierce'  temper 
of  yours." 

She  peeped  at  him  shyly  from  under  her  silken  lashes. 

"It  is  more  dreadful  than  you  think,"  she  answered,  in  a 
low  tone.    "Mr.  Dyceworthy  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

Lorimer's  keen  eyes  flashed  with  indignation.  This  was 
beyond  a  jest — and  he  clinched  his  fist  as  he  exclaimed: 

"Impudent  donkey!  What  a  jolly  good  thrashing  he  de- 
serves!— and  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  got  it  one  of  these 
days!  And  so.  Miss  Guldmar" — and  he  studied  her  face  with 
some  solicitude — "you  were  very  angry  with  him?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  replied,  "but  when  I  told  him  he  was  a  cow- 
ard, and  that  he  must  go  away,  he  said  some  very  cruel  things" 
— she  stopped,  and  blushed  deeply;  then,  as  if  seized  by  some 
sudden  impulse,  she  laid  her  small  hand  on  Lorimer's,  and 
said,  in  the  tone  of  an  appealing  child:  "You  are  very  good 
and  kind  to  me,  and  you  are  clever — you  know  so  much  more 
than  I  do!  You  must  help  me — you  will  tell  me,  will  you  not, 
if  it  is  wrong  of  me  to  like  you  all?  It  is  as  if  we  had  known 
each  other  a  long  time,  and  I  have  been  very  happy  with  you 
and  your  friends.  But  you  must  teach  me  to  behave  like  the 
girls  you  have  seen  in  London — for  I  could  not  bear  that  Sir 
Philip  should  think  me  wicked!" 

"Wicked!"  and  Lorimer  drew  a  long  breath.  "Good  heav- 
ens! If  you  knew  what  Phil's  ideas  about  you  are.  Miss 
Guldmar — " 

"I  do  not  wish  to  know,"  interrupted  Thelma,  steadily. 
"You  must  quite  understand  me — I  am  not  clever  to  hide  my 
thoughts,  and — and — you  are  glad  when  you  talk  sometimes 
to  Sir  Phihp,  are  you  not?"  He  nodded,  gravely  studying 
every  fight  and  shadow  on  the  fair,  upturned,  innocent  face. 

"Yes!"  she  continued,  with  some  eagerness,  "I  see  you  are! 
Well,  it  is  the  same  thing  with  me — I  do  love  to  hear  him 
speak!  You  know  how  his  voice  is  like  music,  and  how  his 
kind  ways  warm  the  heart — it  is  pleasant  to  be  in  his  company 
— I  am  sure  you  also  find  it  so!  But  for  me — it  seems  it  is 
wrong — it  is  not  wise  for  me  to  show  when  I  am  happy.    I  do 


142  THELMA. 

not  care  what  other  people  say — bxit  I  would  not  have  him 
think  ill  of  me  for  all  the  world!" 

Lorimer  took  her  hand  and  held  it  in  his  with  a  most  tender 
loyalty  and  respect.  Her  naive,  simple  words  had,  all  un- 
consciously to  herself,  laid  bare  the  secret  of  her  soul  to  his 
eyes — and  though  his  heart  beat  with  a  strange  sickening  sense 
of  unrest  that  flavored  of  despair,  a  gentle  reverence  filled 
him,  such  as  a  man  might  feel  if  some  little  snow-white  shrine, 
sacred  to  purity  and  peace,  should  be  suddenly  unveiled  be- 
fore him. 

"My  dear  Miss  Guldmar,"  he  said,  earnestly.  "I  assure  you 
you  have  no  cause  to  be  uneasy!  You  must  not  believe  a 
word  Dyceworthy  says — every  one  with  a  grain  of  common 
sense  can  see  what  a  liar  and  hypocrite  he  is!  And  as  for  you, 
you  never  do  anything  wrong — don't  imagine  such  nonsense! 
I  wish  there  were  more  women  like  you!" 

"Ah,  that  is  very  kind  of  you!"  half  laughed  the  girl,  still 
allowing  her  hand  to  rest  in  his.  "But  I  do  not  think  every- 
body would  have  such  a  good  opinion."  They  both  started, 
and  their  hands  fell  asunder  as  a  shadow  darkened  the  room, 
and  Sir  Philip  stood  before  them. 

"Excuse  me!"  he  said,  stiffly,  lifting  his  hat  with  ceremoni- 
ous politeness.    "I  ought  to  have  knocked  at  the  door — I — " 

"Why?"  asked  Thelma,  raising  her  eyebrows  in  surprise. 

"Yes — why,  indeed?"  echoed  Lorimer,  with  a  frank  look  at 
his  friend. 

"I  am  afraid" — and  for  once  the  generally  good-humored 
Errington  looked  positively  petulant — "I  am  afraid  I  inter- 
rupted a  pleasant  conversation!"  And  he  gave  a  little  forced 
laugh  of  feigned  amusement,  but  evident  vexation. 

"And  if  it  was  pleasant,  shall  you  not  make  it  still  more 
so?"  asked  Thelma,  with  timid  and  bewitching  sweetness, 
though  her  heart  beat  very  fast — she  was  anxious.  Why  was 
Sir  Philip  so  cold  and  distant?  He  looked  at  her,  and  his 
pent-up  passion  leaped  to  his  eyes  and  filled  them  with  a 
glowing  and  fiery  tenderness — her  head  drooped  suddenly,  and 
she  turned  quickly  to  avoid  that  searching,  longing  gaze. 
Lorimer  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  slight  feeling 
of  amusement. 

"Well,  Phil,"  he  inquired,  lazily,  "how  did  you  get  here  so 
soon?  You  must  have  glided  into  the  garden  like  a  ghost,  for 
I  never  heard  you  coming." 


THELMA.  143 

"So  I  imagine!"  retorted  Errington,  with  an  effort  to  be 
sarcastic,  in  which  he  utterly  failed  as  he  met  his  friend's  eyes 
— then  after  a  slight  and  somewhat  embarrassed  pause  he 
added,  more  mildly:  "Duprez  can  not  get  on  very  fast — his 
wound  still  bleeds,  and  he  feels  rather  faint  now  and  then. 
I  don't  think  we  bandaged  him  up  properly,  and  I  came  on  to 
see  if  Britta  could  prepare  something  for  him." 

"But  you  will  not  need  to  ask  Britta,"  said  Thelma,  quietly, 
with  a  pretty  air  of  authority,  "for  I  shall  myself  do  all  for 
Mr.  Duprez.  I  understand  well  how  to  cure  his  wound,  and 
I  do  think  he  will  like  me  as  well  as  Britta."  And,  hearing 
footsteps  approaching,  she  looked  out  at  the  window.  "Here 
they  come!"  she  exclaimed.  "Ah,  poor  Monsieur  Pierre!  he 
does  look  very  pale!    I  will  go  and  meet  them." 

And  she  hurried  from  the  room,  leaving  the  two  young  men 
together.  Errington  threw  himself  into  Olaf  Guldmar's  great 
arm-chair  with  a  slight  sigh. 

"Well?"  said  Lorimer,  inquiringly. 

"Well!"  he  returned,  somewhat  gruffly. 

Lorimer  laughed,  and  crossing  the  room,  approached  him 
and  clapped  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Look  here,  old  man!"  he  said,  earnestly,  "don't  be  a  fool! 
I  know  that  'love  maketh  men  mad,'  but  I  never  supposed  the 
lunacy  would  lead  you  to  the  undesirable  point  of  distrusting 
your  friend — your  true  friend,  Phil — by  all  the  gods  of  the 
past  and  present!" 

And  he  laughed  again — a  little  huskily  this  time,  for  there 
was  a  sudden  unaccountable  and  unwished-for  lump  in  his 
throat,  and  a  moisture  in  his  eyes  which  he  had  not  bargained 
for.  Philip  looked  up,  and  silently  held  out  his  hand,  which 
Lorimer  as  silently  clasped.  There  was  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion, and  then  the  young  baronet  spoke  out  manfully. 

"I'm  ashamed  of  myself,  George!  I  really  am!  But  I  tell 
you,  when  I  came  in  and  saw  you  two  standing  there — you've 
no  idea  what  a  picture  you  made! — by  Jove!  I  was  furious!" 
And  he  smiled.    "I  suppose  I  was  jealous!" 

"I  suppose  you  were!"  returned  Lorimer,  amusedly.  "Novel 
sensation,  isn't  it?  A  sort  of  hot,  prickly,  'have-at-thee-vil- 
lain'  sort  of  thing;  must  be  frightfully  exhausting!  But  why 
you  should  indulge  this  emotion  at  my  expense  is  what  I  can 
not,  for  the  life  of  me,  understand!" 


144  THELMA. 

"Well,"  murmured  Errington,  rather  abashed,  "you  see,  her 
hands  were  in  yours — " 

"As  they  will  be  again,  and  yet  again,  I  trust!"  said  Lori- 
nier,  with  cheery  fervor.  "Surely  you'll  allow  me  to  shake 
hands  with  your  wife?" 

"I  say,  George,  be  quiet!"  exclaimed  Philip,  warningly,  as 
at  that  moment  Thelma  passed  the  window  with  Pierre  Du- 
prez  leaning  on  her  arm,  and  her  father  and  Macfarlane  follow- 
ing. 

She  entered  the  room  with  the  stately  step  of  a  young 
queen — her  tall,  beautiful  figure  forming  a  strong  contrast  to 
that  of  the  narrow-shouldered  little  Frenchman,  upon  whom 
she  smiled  down  with  an  air  of  almost  maternal  protection. 

"You  will  sit  here.  Monsieur  Duprez,"  she  said,  leading  him 
to  the  bonde's  arm-chair  which  Errington  instantly  vacated, 
"and  father  will  bring  you  a  good  glass  of  wine.  And  the 
pain  will  be  nothing  when  I  have  attended  to  that  cruel  wound. 
But  I  am  so  sorrj^ — so  very  sorry,  to  see  you  suffer." 

Pierre  did  indeed  present  rather  a  dismal  spectacle.  There 
was  a  severe  cut  on  his  forehead  as  well  as  his  cheek;  his  face 
was  pale  and  streaked  with  blood,  while  the  hastily  impro- 
vised bandages  which  were  tied  under  his  chin  by  no  means 
improved  his  personal  appearance.  His  head  ached  with  the 
pain,  and  his  eyes  smarted  Avith  the  strong  sunlight  to  which 
he  had  been  exposed  all  the  day,  but  his  natural  gayety  was 
undiminished,  and  he  laughed  as  he  answered: 

"Chere  ^nademoiselle,  you  axe  too  good  to  me!  It  is  a  piece 
of  good  fortune  that  Sigurd  threw  that  stone — yes!  since  it 
brings  me  your  pity!  But  do  not  trouble;  a  little  cold  water 
and  a  fresh  handkerchief  is  all  I  need." 

But  Thelma  was  already  practicing  her  own  simple  surgery 
for  his  benefit.  With  deft,  soft  fingers  she  laid  bare  the 
throbbing  wound — washed  and  dressed  it  carefully  and  skillr 
fully — and  used,  withal,  such  exceeding  gentleness  that  Du- 
prez closed  his  eyes  in  a  sort  of  rapture  during  the  operation, 
and  wished  it  could  last  longer.  Then  taking  the  glass  oi 
wine  her  father  brought  in  obedience  to  her  order,  she  said, 
in  a  tone  of  mild  authority: 

"Now,  you  will  drink  this.  Monsieur  Pierre,  and  you  will 
rest  quite  still  till  it  is  time  to  go  back  to  the  yacht;  and  to- 
morrow you  will  not  feel  any  pain,  I  am  sure.  And  I  do  think 
it  will  not  be  an  ugly  scar  for  long." 


THELMA.  145 

"If  it  is/'  answered  Pierre,  "I  shall  say  I  received  it  in  a 
duel!  Then  I  shall  be  great — glorious! — and  all  the  pretty 
ladies  will  love  me!" 

She  laughed — but  looked  grave  a  moment  afterward. 

"You  must  never  say  what  is  not  true,"  she  said.  "It  is 
wrong  to  deceive  any  one — even  in  a  small  matter." 

Duprez  gazed  up  at  her  wonderingly,  feeling  very  much  like 
a  chidden  child. 

"Never  say  what  is  not  true!"  he  thought.  "Mon  Dieu! 
what  would  become  of  my  life?" 

It  was  a  new  suggestion,  and  he  reflected  upon  it  with  as- 
tonishment. It  opened  such  a  wide  vista  of  impossibilities  to 
his  mind. 

Meanwhile  old  Guldmar  was  engaged  in  pouring  out  wine 
for  the  other  young  men,  talking  all  the  time. 

"I  tell  thee,  Thelma  mine,"  he  said,  seriously,  "something 
must  be  very  wrong  with  our  Sigurd.  The  poor  lad  has  al- 
ways been  gentle  and  tractable,  but  to-day  he  was  like  some 
wild  animal  for  mischief  and  hardihood.  I  grieve  to  see  it! 
I  fear  the  time  may  come  when  he  may  no  longer  be  a  safe 
servant  for  thee,  child." 

"Oh,  father!" — and  the  girl's  voice  was  full  of  tender  anxiety 
— "surely  not!  He  is  too  fond  of  us  to  do  us  any  harm — he  is 
so  docile  and  affectionate!" 

"May  be,  may  be!"  and  the  old  farmer  shook  his  head  doubt- 
fully. "But  when  the  wits  are  away  the  brain  is  like  a  ship 
without  ballast — there  is  no  safe  sailing  possible.  He  would 
not  mean  any  harm,  perhaps — and  yet  in  his  wild  moods  he 
might  do  it,  and  be  sorry  for  it  directly  afterward.  'Tis  little 
use  to  cry  when  the  mischief  is  done — and  I  confess  I  do  not 
like  his  present  humor." 

"By  the  bye,"  observed  Lorimer,  "that  reminds  me!  Sigurd 
has  taken  an  uncommonly  strong  aversion  to  Phil.  It's  curi- 
ous, but  it's  a  fact.  Perhaps  it  is  that  which  upsets  his 
nerves?" 

"I  have  noticed  it  myself,"  said  Errington,  "and  I'm  sorry 
for  it,  for  I've  done  him  no  harm  that  I  can  remember.  He 
certainly  asked  me  to  go  away  from  the  Alten  Fjord,  and  I  re- 
fused— I'd  no  idea  he  had  any  serious  meaning  in  his  request. 
But  it's  evident  he  can't  endure  my  company." 

"Ah,  then!"  said  Thelma,  simply  and  sorrowfully,  "he  must 
be  very  ill — because  it  is  natural  for  every  one  to  like  you." 
io 


148  THBLMA. 

She  spoke  in  perfect  good  faith  and  innocence  of  heart;  but 
Errington's  eyes  flashed  and  he  smiled — one  of  those  rare,  ten- 
der smiles  of  his  which  brightened  his  whole  visage. 

"You  are  very  kind  to  say  so,  Miss  Guldmar!" 

"It  is  not  kindness;  it  is  the  truth!"  she  replied,  frankly. 

At  that  moment  a  very  rosy  face  and  two  sparkling  eyes 
peered  inquiringly  in  at  the  door. 

"Yes,  Britta!"  Thelma  smiled;  "we  are  quite  ready!" 

Whereupon  the  face  disappeared,  and  Olaf  Guldmar  led  the 
way  into  the  kitchen,  which  was  at  the  same  time  the  dining- 
room,  and  where  a  substantial  supper  was  spread  on  the  pol- 
ished pine  table.  The  farmer's  great  arm-chair  was  brought 
in  for  Duprez,  who,  though  he  declared  he  was  being  spoiled 
by  too  much  attention,  seemed  to  enjoy  it  immensely;  and 
they  were  all,  including  Britta,  soon  clustered  round  the  hos- 
pitable board  whereon  antique  silver  and  quaint  glasses  of 
foreign  make  sparkled  bravely,  their  effect  enhanced  by  the 
snowy  whiteness  of  the  homespun  table-linen. 

A  few  minutes  set  them  all  talking  gayly.  Macfarlane  vied 
with  the  ever-gallant  Duprez  in  making  a  few  compliments  to 
Britta,  who  was  pretty  and  engaging  enough  to  merit  atten- 
tion, and  who,  after  all,  was  something  more  than  a  mere  ser- 
vant, possessing,  as  she  did,  a  great  deal  of  her  young  mis- 
tress's affection  and  confidence,  and  being  always  treated  by 
Guldmar  himself  as  one  of  the  family.  There  was  no  reserve 
or  coldness  in  the  party,  and  the  hum  of  their  merry  voices 
echoed  up  to  the  cross-rafters  of  the  stout  wooden  ceiling 
and  through  the  open  door  and  window,  from  whence  a  patch 
of  the  gorgeous  afternoon  sky  could  be  seen,  glimmering  redly, 
like  a  distant  lake  of  fire.  They  were  in  the  full  enjoyment 
of  their  repast,  and  the  old  farmer's  rollicking  "Ha,  ha,  ha!" 
in  response  to  a  joke  of  Lorimer's,  had  just  echoed  jovially 
through  the  room,  when  a  strong,  harsh  voice  called  aloud : 

"Olaf  Guldmar!" 

There  was  a  sudden  silence.  Each  one  looked  at  the  other 
in  surprise.     Again  the  voice  called: 

"Olaf  Guldmar!" 

"Well!"  roared  the  bonde,  testily,  turning  sharply  round  in 
his  chair.    "Who  calls  me?" 

"I  do!"  and  the  tall,  emaciated  figure  of  a  woman  advanced 
and  stood  on  the  threshold,  without  actually  entering  the 


THELMA.  147 

room.  She  dropped  the  black  shawl  that  enveloped  her,  and 
in  so  doing  disordered  her  hair,  which  fell  in  white,  straggling 
locks  about  her  withered  features,  and  her  dark  eyes  gleamed 
maliciously  as  she  fixed  them  on  the  assembled  party.  Britta, 
on  perceiving  her,  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  without  con- 
sidering the  propriety  of  her  action,  buried  her  nut-brown 
curls  and  sparkling  eyes  in  Duprez's  coat-sleeve,  which,  to  do 
the  Frenchman  justice,  was  exceedingly  prompt  to  receive 
and  shelter  its  fair  burden.  The  bonde  rose  from  his  chair, 
and  his  face  grew  stern. 

"What  do  you  here,  Lovisa  Elsland?  Have  you  walked 
thus  far  from  Talvig  to  pay  a  visit  that  must  needs  be  un- 
welcome?" 

"Unwelcome  I  know  I  am,"  replied  Lovisa,  disdainfully 
noting  the  terror  of  Britta  and  the  astonished  glances  of 
Errington  and  his  friends — "unwelcome  at  all  times — but 
most  unwelcome  at  the  hour  of  feasting  and  folly — for  who 
can  endure  to  receive  a  message  from  the  Lord  when  the 
mouth  is  full  of  savory  morsels  and  the  brain  reels  with  the 
wicked  wine?  Yet  I  have  come  in  spite  of  your  iniquities, 
Olaf  Guldmar— strong  in  the  strength  of  the  Lord,  I  dare  to 
set  foot  upon  your  accursed  threshold,  and  once  more  make 
my  Just  demand.  Give  me  back  the  child  of  my  dead  daugh- 
ter!— restore  to  me  the  erring  creature  who  should  be  the 
prop  of  my  defenseless  age,  had  not  your  pagan  spells  alien- 
ated her  from  me — release  her,  and  bid  her  return  with  me  to 
my  desolate  hearth  and  home.  This  done,  I  will  stay  the 
tempest  that  threatens  your  habitation — I  will  hold  back  the 
dark  cloud  of  destruction — I  will  avert  the  wrath  of  the  Lord 
— yes!  for  the  sake  of  the  past — for  the  sake  of  the  past!" 

These  last  words  she  muttered  in  a  low  tone,  more  to  her- 
self than  to  Guldmar;  and,  having  spoken,  she  averted  her 
eyes  from  the  company,  drew  her  shawl  closely  about  her,  and 
waited  for  an  answer. 

"By  all  the  gods  of  my  fathers!"  shouted  the  bonde,  in  a 
towering  passion.  "This  passes  my  utmost  endurance!  Have 
I  not  told  thee  again  and  again,  thou  silly  soul! — that  thy 
grandchild  is  no  slave?  She  is  free — free  to  return  to  thee 
an  she  will;  free  also  to  stay  with  us,  where  she  has  found  a 
happier  home  than  thy  miserable  hut  at  Talvig.  Britta!"  and 
he  thumped  his  fist  on  the  table.  "Look  up,  child!  Speak 
for  thyself!    Thou  hast  a  spirit  of  thine  own.    Here  is  thy 


148  THBLMA. 

one  earthly  relation.    Wilt  go  with  her?    Neither  thy  mistress 
nor  I  will  stand  in  the  way  of  thy  pleasure." 

Thus  adjured,  Britta  looked  up  so  suddenly  that  Duprez — 
who  had  rather  enjoyed  the  feel  of  her  little  nestling  head 
hidden  upon  his  arm — was  quite  startled,  and  he  was  still 
more  so  at  the  utter  defiance  that  flashed  into  the  small  maid- 
en's round,  rosy  face. 

"Go  with  you!"  she  cried,  shrilly,  addressing  the  old 
woman,  who  remained  standing  in  the  same  attitude,  with  an 
air  of  perfect  composure.  "Do  you  think  I  have  forgotten 
how  you  treated  my  mother,  or  how  you  used  to  beat  me  and 
starve  me?  You  wicked  old  woman!  How  dare  you  come 
here?  I'm  ashamed  of  you!  You  frightened  my  mother  to 
death — you  know  you  did! — and  now  you  want  to  do  the  same 
to  me!  But  you  won't — I  can  tell  you!  I'm  old  enough  to 
do  as  I  like,  and  I'd  rather  die  than  live  with  you!" 

Then,  overcome  by  excitement  and  temper,  she  burst  out 
crying,  heedless  of  Pierre  Duprez's  smiling  nods  of  approval 
and  the  admiring  remarks  he  was  making  under  his  breath, 
such  as:  "Brava,  ma  petite!  C'est  hien  fait!  C'est  joliment 
Men  dit!     Mais  je  crois  Men!" 

Lovisa  seemed  unmoved;  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  at 
Guldmar. 

"Is  this  your  answer?"  she  demanded. 

"By  the  sword  of  Odin!"  cried  the  bonde,  "the  woman  must 
be  mad!  My  answer?  The  girl  has  spoken  for  herself — and 
plainly  enough  too!  Art  thou  deaf,  Lovisa  Elsland?  or  are 
thy  wits  astray?" 

"My  hearing  is  very  good,"  replied  Lovisa,  calmly,  "and 
my  mind,  Olaf  Guldmar,  is  as  clear  as  yours.  And,  thanks  to 
your  teaching  in  mine  early  days" — she  paused  and  looked 
keenly  at  him,  but  he  appeared  to  see  no  meaning  in  her  allu- 
sion— "I  know  the  English  tongue,  of  wliich  we  hear  far  too 
much — too  often!  There  is  nothing  Britta  has  said  that  I  do 
not  understand.  But  I  know  well  it  is  not  the  girl  herself 
that  speaks — it  is  a  demon  in  her — and  that  demon  shall  be 
cast  forth  before  I  die!  Yea,  with  the  help  of  the  Lord  I 
shall—" 

She  stopped  abruptly  and  fixed  her  eyes,  glowing  with  fierce 
wrath,  on  Thelma.  The  girl  met  her  evil  glance  with  a  gen- 
tle surprise.    Lovisa  smiled  malignantly. 


THELMA.  149 

"You  know  me,  I  think!"  said  Lovisa.  "You  have  seen  me 
before?" 

"Often,"  answered  Thelma,  mildly.  "I  have  always  been 
sorry  for  you." 

"Sorry  for  me!"  almost  yelled  the  old  woman.  "Why — 
why  are  you  sorry  for  me?" 

"Do  not  answer  her,  child!"  interrupted  Guldmar,  angrily. 
"She  is  as  mad  as  the  winds  of  a  wild  winter,  and  will  but  vex 
thee." 

But  Thelma  laid  her  hand  soothingly  on  her  father's,  and 
smiled  peacefully  as  she  turned  her  fair  face  again  toward 
Lovisa. 

"Why?"  she  said.  "Because  you  seem  so  very  lonely  and 
sad — and  that  must  make  you  cross  with  every  one  who  is 
happy!  And  it  is  a  pity,  I  think,  that  you  do  not  let  Britta 
alone — you  only  quarrel  with  each  other  when  you  meet. 
And  would  you  not  like  her  to  think  kindly  of  you  when  you 
are  dead?" 

Lovisa  seemed  choking  with  anger — her  face  worked  into 
such  hideous  grimaces,  that  all  present,  save  Thelma,  were 
dismayed  at  her  repulsive  aspect. 

"When  I  am  dead!"  she  muttered,  hoarsely.  "So  you  count 
upon  that  already,  do  you?  Ah!  But  do  you  know  which  of 
us  shall  die  first!"  Then  raising  her  voice  with  the  effort  she 
exclaimed: 

"Stand  forth,  Thelma  Guldmar!  Let  me  see  you  closely — 
face  to  face!" 

Errington  said  something  in  a  low  tone,  and  the  bonde 
would  have  again  interfered,  but  Thelma  shook  her  head, 
smiled  and  rose  from  her  seat  at  the  table. 

"Anything  to  soothe  her,  poor  soul!"  she  whispered,  as  she 
left  Errington's  side  and  advanced  toward  Lovisa,  till  she  was 
within  reach  of  the  old  woman's  hand.  She  looked  like  some 
grand  white  angel  who  had  stepped  down  from  a  cathedral 
altar,  as  she  stood  erect  and  stately  with  a  gravely  pitying 
expression  in  her  lovely  eyes,  confronting  the  sable-draped, 
withered,  leering  hag  who  fixed  upon  her  a  steady  look  of  the 
most  cruel  and  pitiless  hatred. 

"Daughter  of  Satan!"  said  Lovisa,  then,  in  intense  piercing 
tones  that  somehow  carried  with  them  a  sense  of  awe  and 
horror — "creature  in  whose  veins  the  fire  of  hell  burns  without 
ceasing — my  curse  upon  you!     My  curse  upon  the  beauty  of 


150  THELMA. 

your  body — may  it  grow  loathsome  in  the  sight  of  all  men! 
May  those  who  embrace  you  embrace  misfortune  and  ruin! — 
may  love  betray  you  and  forsake  you!  May  your  heart  be 
broken  even  as  mine  has  been! — may  your  bridal  bed  be  left 
deserted! — may  your  children  wither  and  pine  from  their  hour 
of  birth!  Sorrow  track  you  to  the  grave! — may  your  death  be 
lingering  and  horrible!  God  be  my  witness  and  fulfill  my 
words!" 

And,  raising  her  arms  with  a  wild  gesture,  she  turned  and 
left  the  house.  The  spell  of  stupefied  silence  was  broken 
with  her  disappearance.  Old  Guldmar  prepared  to  rush  after 
her  and  force  her  to  retract  her  evil  speech — Errington  was 
furious,  and  Britta  cried  bitterly.  The  lazy  Lorimer  was  ex- 
cited and  annoyed. 

"Fetch  her  back,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  dance  upon  her!" 

But  Thelma  stood  where  the  old  woman  had  left  her — she 
smiled  faintly,  but  she  was  very  pale.  Errington  approached 
her — she  turned  to  him  and  stretched  out  her  hands  with  a 
little  appealing  gesture. 

"My  friend,"  she  said  softly,  "do  you  think  I  deserve  so 
many  curses?    Is  there  something  about  me  that  is  evil?" 

What  Errington  would  have  answered  is  doubtful — ^his  heart 
beat  wildly — he  longed  to  draw  those  little  hands  in  his  own, 
and  cover  them  with  passionate  kisses — but  he  was  intercepted 
by  old  Guldmar,  who  caught  his  daughter  in  his  arms  and 
hugged  her  closely,  his  silvery  beard  mingling  with  the  gold 
of  her  rippling  hair. 

"Never  fear  a  wicked  tongue,  my  bird!"  said  the  old  man, 
fondly.  "There  is  naught  of  harm  that  would  touch  thee 
either  on  earth  or  in  heaven — and  a  foul-mouthed  curse  hiul;!. 
roll  off  thy  soul  like  water  from  a  dove's  wing!  Cheer  thee, 
my  darling,  cheer  thee!  What!  Thine  own  creed  teaches 
thee  that  the  gentle  Mother  of  Christ,  with  her  little  whito 
angels  round  her,  watches  over  all  innocent  maids — and 
thinkest  thou  she  will  let  an  old  woman's  malice  and  envy 
blight  thy  young  days?  No,  no!  Thou  accursed?"  And  the 
bonde  laughed  loudly  to  hide  the  tears  that  moistened  his  keen 
eyes.  "Thou  art  the  sweetest  blessing  of  my  heart,  even  as 
thy  mother  was  before  thee!  Come,  come!  Eaise  thy  pretty 
head — here  are  these  merry  lads  growing  long-faced — and 
Britta  is  weeping  enough  salt  water  to  fill  a  bucket!  One  of 
thy  smiles  will  set  us  all  right  again — ay,  there  now!" — as  she 


THELMA.  151 

looked  up  and,  meeting  Philip's  eloquent  eyes,  blushed,  and 
withdrew  herself  gently  from  her  father's  arms — "Let  us  finish 
our  supper  and  think  no  more  of  yonder  villainous  old  hag — 
she  is  crazy,  I  believe,  and  knows  not  what  she  says  half  her 
time.  Now,  Britta,  cease  thy  grunting  and  sighing — 'twill 
spoil  thy  face  and  will  not  mend  the  hole  in  thy  grandmother's 
brain!" 

"Wicked,  spiteful,  ugly  old  thing!"  sobbed  Britta;  "I'll 
never,  never,  never  forgive  her!"  Then,  running  to  Thelma, 
she  caught  her  hand  and  kissed  it  affectionately.  "Oh,  my 
dear,  my  dear!  To  think  she  should  have  cursed  you,  what 
dreadful,  dreadful  wickedness!  Oh!"  and  Britta  looked  vol- 
umes of  wrath.    "I  could  have  beaten  her  black  and  blue!" 

Her  vicious  eagerness  was  almost  comic — every  one  laughed, 
including  Thelma,  though  she  pressed  the  hand  of  her  little 
servant  very  warmly. 

"Oh,  fy!"  said  Lorimer,  seriously.  "Little  girls  mustn't 
whip  their  grandmothers;  it's  specially  forbidden  in  the 
prayer-book,  isn't  it  Phil?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know!"  replied  Errington,  merrily.  "I 
believe  there  is  something  to  the  effect  that  a  man  may  not 
marry  his  grandmother — perhaps  that  is  what  you  mean?" 

"Ah,  no  doubt!"  murmured  Lorimer,  languidly,  as,  with 
the  others,  he  resumed  his  seat  at  the  supper-table.  "I  knew 
there  was  a  special  mandate  respecting  one's  particularly 
venerable  relations  with  a  view  to  self-guidance  in  case  they 
should  prove  troublesome  like  Britta's  good  grandmamma. 
What  a  frightfully  picturesque  mouthing  old  lady  she  is!" 

"She  is  lapetroletise  of  Norway!"  exclaimed  Duprez.  "She 
would  make  an  admirable  dancer  in  the  Carmagnole!" 

Macfarlane,  who  had  preserved  a  discreet  silence,  through- 
out the  whole  scene,  here  looked  up. 

"She's  just  a  screech-owl  o'  mistaken  piety,"  he  said.  "She 
minds  me  o'  a  glowerin'  auld  warlock  of  an  aunt  o'  mine  in 
Glasgie,  wha  sits  in  her  chair  a'  day  wi'  ae  finger  on  the 
Bible.  She  says  she's  gaun  straight  to  heaven  by  special  in- 
vitation o'  the  Lord,  leavin'  a'  her  blood  relations  howlin' 
vainly  after  her  from  their  roastin'  fires  down  below.  Ma 
certes!  she'll  give  ye  a  good  rousin'  curse  if  ye  like!  She's 
cursed  me  ever  since  I  can  remember  her — cursed  me  in  and 
out  from  sunrise  to  sunset — but  I'm  no  the  worst  for  't  as  yet 
— an'  it's  dootful  whether  she's  any  the  better." 


152  THELMA. 

"And  yet  Lovisa  Elsland  used  to  be  as  merry  and  lissome  a 
lass  as  ever  stepped,"  said  Guldmar,  musingly.  "I  remember 
her  well  when  both  she  and  I  were  young,  I  was  always  on 
the  sea  at  that  time — never  happy  unless  the  waves  tossed  me 
and  my  vessel  from  one  shore  to  another.  I  suppose  the  rest- 
less spirit  of  my  fathers  was  in  me.  I  was  never  contented 
unless  I  saw  some  new  coast  every  six  months  or  so.  Well, 
Lovisa  was  always  foremost  among  the  girls  of  the  village 
who  watched  me  leave  the  fjord — and  however  long  or  short  a 
time  I  might  be  absent,  she  was  certain  to  be  on  the  shore 
when  my  ship  came  sailing  home  again.  Many  a  joke  I  have 
cracked  with  her  and  her  companions — and  she  was  a  bonny 
enough  creature  to  look  at  then,  I  tell  you — though  now  she  is 
like  a  battered  figure-head  on  a  wreck.  Her  marriage  spoiled 
her  temper — her  husband  was  as  dark  and  sour  a  man  as  could 
be  met  with  in  all  Norway,  and  when  he  and  his  fishing-boat 
sunk  in  a  squall  off  the  Lofoden  Islands,  I  doubt  if  she  shed 
many  tears  for  his  loss.  Her  only  daughter's  husband  went 
down  in  the  same  storm — and  he  but  three  months  wedded — 
and  the  girl — Britta's  mother — pined  and  pined,  and  even 
when  her  child  was  born  took  no  sort  of  comfort  in  it.  She 
died  four  years  after  Britta's  birth — her  death  was  hastened, 
so  I  have  heard,  through  old  Lovisa's  harsh  treatment — any- 
how the  little  lass  she  left  behind  her  had  no  very  easy  time  of 
it  all  alone  with  her  grandmother — eh,  Britta?" 

Britta  looked  up  and  shook  her  head  emphatically. 

"Then,"  went  on  Guldmar,  "when  my  girl  came  back  the 
last  time  from  France,  Britta  chanced  to  see  her,  and, 
strangely  enough" — here  he  winked  shrewdly — "took  a  fancy 
to  her  face — odd,  wasn't  it?  However,  nothing  would  suit 
her  but  that  she  must  be  Thelma's  handmaiden,  and  here  she 
is,  Now  you  know  her  history — she  would  be  happy  enough 
if  her  grandmother  would  let  her  alone;  but  the  silly  old 
woman  thinks  the  girl  is  under  a  spell,  and  that  Thelma  is  the 
witch  that  works  it" — and  the  old  farmer  laughed,  "There's 
a  grain  of  truth  in  the  notion,  too — but  not  in  the  way  she  has 
of  looking  at  it." 

"All  women  are  witches!"  said  Duprez.  "Britta  is  a  little 
witch  herself!" 

Britta's  rosy  cheeks  grew  rosier  at  this,  and  she  tossed  her 
chestnut  curls  with  an  air  of  saucy  defiance  that  delighted  the 
Frenchman,     He  forgot  his  wounded  cheek  and  his  disfigur- 


THELMA.  153 

ing  bandages  in  the  contemplation  of  the  little  plump  figure 
cased  in  its  close  fitting  scarlet  bodice  and  the  tempting  rosy 
lips  that  were  in  such  close  proximity  to  his  touch. 

"If  it  were  not  for  those  red  hands!"  he  thought.  "Dieu! 
what  a  charming  child  she  would  be!  One  would  instantly 
kill  the  grandmother  and  kiss  the  granddaughter!" 

And  he  watched  her  with  admiration  as  she  busied  herself 
about  the  supper-table,  attending  to  every  one  with  diligence 
and  care,  but  reserving  her  special  services  for  Thelma,  whom 
she  waited  on  with  a  mingled  tenderness  and  reverence  that 
were  both  touching  and  pretty  to  see. 

The  conversation  now  became  general  and  nothing  further 
occurred  to  disturb  the  harmony  and  hilarity  of  the  party — 
only  Errington  seemed  somewhat  abstracted  and  answered 
many  questions  that  were  put  to  him  at  hap-hazard,  without 
knowing,  or  possibly  caring,  whether  his  replies  were  intelligi- 
ble or  incoherent.  His  thoughts  were  dream-like  and  bril- 
liant with  fairy  sunshine.  He  understood  at  last  what  poets 
meant  by  their  melodious  musings  woven  into  golden  threads 
of  song — he  seemed  to  have  grasped  some  hitherto  unguessed 
secret  of  his  being — a  secret  that  filled  him  with  as  much 
strange  pain  as  pleasure.  He  felt  as  though  he  were  endowed 
with  a  thousand  senses — each  one  keenly  alive  and  sensitive 
to  the  smallest  touch — and  there  was  a  pulsation  in  his  blood 
that  was  new  and  beyond  his  control — a  something  that  beat 
wildly  in  his  heart  at  the  sound  of  Thelma's  voice  or  the  pass- 
ing flutter  of  her  white  garments  near  him.  Of  what  use  to 
disguise  it  from  himself  any  longer?  He  loved  her!  The 
terrible  beautiful  tempest  of  love  had  broken  over  his  life  at 
last;  there  was  no  escape  from  its  thunderous  passion  and 
dazzling  lightning  glory. 

He  drew  a  sharp,  quick  breath — the  hum  of  the  gay  voices 
around  him  was  more  meaningless  to  his  ears  than  the  sound 
of  the  sea  breaking  on  the  beach  below.  He  glanced  at  the 
girl — the  fair  and  innocent  creature  who  had,  in  his  imagina- 
tion, risen  to  a  throne  of  imperial  height  from  whence  she 
could  bestow  on  him  death  or  salvation.  How  calm  she 
seemed!  She  was  listening  with  courteous  patience  to  a  long 
story  of  Macfarlane's,  whose  Scotch  accent  rendered  it  difficult 
for  her  to  understand.  She  was  pale,  Philip  thought,  and  her 
eyes  were  heavy;  but  she  smiled  now  and  then — such  a  smile! 

Even  so  sweetly  might  the  "kiss-worthy"  lips  of  the  Greek 


154  THELMA. 

Aphrodite  part,  could  that  eloquent  and  matchless  marble  for 
once  breathe  into  life.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  fear. 
Her  hands  held  his  fate.  What  if  she  could  not  love  him? 
What  if  he  must  lose  her  utterly?  This  idea  overpowered 
him;  his  brain  whirled  and  he  suddenly  pushed  away  his 
untasted  glass  of  wine,  and  rose  abruptly  from  the  table,  heed- 
less of  the  surprise  his  action  excited. 

"Halloo,  Phil,  where  are  you  off  to?"  cried  Lorimer.  "Wait 
for  me!" 

"Tired  of  our  company,  my  lads?"  said  Guldmar,  kindly. 
"You've  had  a  long  day  of  it — and  what  with  the  climbing 
and  the  strong  air,  no  doubt  you'll  be  glad  to  turn  in." 

"Upon  my  life,  sir,"  answered  Errington,  with  some  con- 
fusion, "I  don't  know  why  I  got  up  just  now!  I  was  thinking 
— I'm  rather  a  dreamy  sort  of  fellow  sometimes,  and — " 

"He  was  asleep,  and  doesn't  want  to  own  it!"  interrupted 
Lorimer,  sententiously.  "You  will  excuse  him;  he  means 
well!  He  looks  rather  seedy.  I  think,  Mr.  Guldmar,  we'll 
be  off  to  the  yacht.  By  the  way,  you're  coming  with  us  to- 
morrow, aren't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Thelma.  "We  will  sail  with  you  round  by 
Soroe — it  is  weird  and  dark  and  grand;  but  I  think  it  is  beau- 
tiful. And  there  are  many  stories  of  the  elves  and  berg-folk, 
who  are  said  to  dwell  there  among  the  deep  ravines.  Have 
you  heard  about  the  berg-folk?"  she  continued,  addressing 
herself  to  Errington,  unaware  of  the  effort  he  was  making  to 
appear  cool  and  composed  in  her  presence.  "No?  Then  I 
must  tell  you  to-morrow." 

They  all  walked  out  of  the  house  into  the  porch,  and  while 
her  father  was  interchanging  farewells  with  the  others,  she 
looked  at  Sir  Philip's  grave  face  with  some  solicitude. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  very  tired,  my  friend?"  she  asked, 
softly,  "or  your  head  aches — and  you  suffer?" 

He  caught  her  hands  swiftly  and  raised  them  to  his  lips. 

"Would  you  care  much — would  you  care  at  all,  if  I  suf- 
fered?" he  murmured,  in  a  low  tone. 

Then  before  she  could  speak  or  move,  he  let  go  her  hands 
again,  and  turned  with  his  usual  easy  courtesy  to  Guldmar. 
"Then  we  may  expect  you  without  fail  to-morrow,  sir!  Good- 
night!" 

"Good-night,  my  lad!" 

And  with  many  hearty  salutations  the  young  men  took  their 


THELMA.  155 

departure,  raising  their  hats  to  Thelma  as  they  turned  down 
the  winding  path  to  the  shore.  She  remained  standing  near 
her  father — and,  when  the  sound  of  their  footsteps  had  died 
away,  she  drew  closer  still  and  laid  her  head  against  his 
breast. 

"Cold,  my  bird?"  queried  the  old  man.  "Why,  thou  art 
shivering,  child! — and  yet  the  sunshine  is  as  warm  as  wine. 
What  ails  thee?" 

"Nothing,  father!"  And  she  raised  her  eyes,  glowing  and 
brilliant  as  stars.  "Tell  me — do  you  think  often  of  my  mother 
now?" 

I  "Often!"  And  Guldmar's  fine,  resolute  face  grew  sad  and 
tender.  "She  is  never  absent  from  my  mind!  I  see  her  night 
and  day — ay!  I  can  feel  her  soft  arms  clinging  round  my  neck 
• — why  dost  thou  ask  so  strange  a  question,  little  one?  Is  it 
possible  to  forget  what  has  been  once  loved?" 

Thelma  was  silent  for  many  minutes.  Then  she  kissed  her 
father  and  said  "good-night."  He  held  her  by  the  hand  and 
looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  vague  anxiety. 

"Art  thou  well,  my  child?"  he  asked.  "This  little  hand 
bums  like  fire — and  thine  eyes  are  too  bright,  surely,  for 
sleep  to  visit  them?    Art  sure  that  nothing  ails  thee?" 

"Sure,  quite  sure,"  answered  the  girl,  with  a  strange, 
dreamy  smile.    "I  am  quite  well — and  happy!" 

And  she  turned  to  enter  the  house. 

"Stay!"  called  the  father.  "Promise  me  thou  wilt  think  no 
more  of  Lovisa!" 

"I  had  nearly  forgotten  her,"  she  responded.  "Poor  thing! 
She  cursed  me  because  she  is  so  miserable,  I  suppose,  all  alone, 
and  unloved;  it  must  be  hard!  Curses  sometimes  turn  to 
blessings,  father.    Good-night!" 

And  she  ascended  the  one  flight  of  wooden  stairs  in  the 
house  to  her  own  bedroom — a  little  three-cornered  place  as 
clean  and  white  as  the  interior  of  a  shell.  Never  once  glancing 
at  the  small  mirror  that  seemed  to  invite  her  charms  to 
reflect  themselves  therein,  she  went  to  the  quaint  latticed 
window  and  knelt  down  by  it,  folding  her  arms  on  the  sill 
while  she  looked  far  out  to  the  fjord.  She  could  see  the  Eng- 
lish flag  fluttering  from  the  masts  of  the  "Eulalie;"  she  could 
almost  hear  the  steady  plash  of  the  oars  wielded  by  Errington 
and  his  friends  as  they  rowed  themselves  back  to  the  yacht. 


156  THELMA. 

Bright  tears  filled  her  eyes,  and  brimmed  over,  falling  warmly 
on  her  folded  hands. 

"Would  I  care  if  you  suffered?"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  my 
love! — my  love!" 

Then,  as  if  afraid  lest  the  very  winds  should  have  heard  her 
half-breathed  exclamation,  she  shut  her  window  in  haste,  and 
a  hot  blush  crimsoned  her  cheeks. 

Undressing  quickly,  she  slipped  into  her  little  white  bed, 
and,  closing  her  eyes,  fancied  she  slept,  though  her  sleep  was 
but  a  waking  dream  of  love  in  which  all  bright  hopes  reached 
their  utmost  fulfillment,  and  yet  were  in  some  strange  way 
crossed  with  shadows  which  she  had  no  power  to  disperse. 
And  later  on,  when  old  Guldmar  slumbered  soundly,  and  the 
golden  midnight  sunshine  lighted  up  every  nook  and  gable  of 
the  farm  house  with  its  lustrous  glory — making  Thelma's 
closed  lattice  sparkle  like  a  carven  jewel — a  desolate  figure 
lay  prone  on  the  grass  beneath  her  window,  with  meager  pale 
face,  and  wide-open  wild  blue  eyes  upturned  to  the  fiery  bril- 
liancy of  the  heavens.  Sigurd  had  come  home — Sigurd  was 
repentant,  sorrowful,  ashamed — and  broken-hearted. 


CHAPTEE    XIII. 

O  Love!  O  Love!    O  Gateway  of  Delight! 

Thou  porch  of  peace,  thou  pageant  of  the  prime 
Of  all  God's  creatures!    I  am  here  to  climb 

Thine  upward  steps,  and  daily  and  by  night 
To  gaze  beyond  them  and  to  search  aright 

The  far-off  splendor  of  thy  track  sublime. 

Eric  Mackay's  Love-letters  of  a  Violinist. 

On  the  following  morning  the  heat  was  intense — no  breath 
of  wind  stirred  a  ripple  on  the  fjord,  and  there  was  a  heavi- 
ness in  the  atmosphere  which  made  the  very  brightness  of  the 
sky  oppressive.  Such  hot  weather  was  unusual  for  that  part 
of  Norway,  and  according  to  Valdemar  Svensen,  betokened 
some  change.  On  board  the  "Eulalie"  everything  was  ready 
for  the  trip  to  Soroe — steam  was  getting  up  prior  to  departure 
— and  a  group  of  red-capped  sailors  stood  prepared  to  weigh 
the  anchor  as  soon  as  the  signal  was  given.  Breakfast  was 
over — Macfarlane  was  in  the  saloon  writing  his  Journal,  which 


THELMA.  157 

he  kept  with  great  exaetitiide,  and  Duprez,  who,  on  account 
of  his  wound,  was  considered  something  of  an  invalid,  was 
seated  in  a  lounge  chair  on  deck,  delightedly  turning  over  a 
bundle  of  inflammatory  French  political  journals  received 
that  morning.  Errington  and  Lorimer  were  pacing  the  deck 
arm  in  arm,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  returning  boat  which  had  been  sent  ofi:  to  fetch  Thelma 
and  her  father.  Errington  looked  vexed  and  excited — Lori- 
mer bland  and  convincing. 

"I  can't  help  it,  Phil!"  he  said.  "It's  no  use  fretting  and 
fuming  at  me.  It's  like  Dyceworthy's  impudence,  of  course — 
but  there's  no  doubt  he  proposed  to  her — and  it's  equally  cer- 
tain that  she  rejected  him.  I  thought  I'd  tell  you  you  had  a 
rival — not  in  me,  as  you  seemed  to  think  yesterday — but  in 
our  holy  fat  friend." 

"Rival!  pshaw!"  returned  Errington,  with  an  angry  laugh. 
"He  is  not  worth  kicking!" 

"Possibly  not!  Still,  I  have  a  presentiment  that  he's  the 
sort  of  fellow  that  won't  take  'no'  for  an  answer.  He'll  dodge 
that  poor  girl  and  make  her  life  miserable  if  he  can,  unless — " 

"Unless  what?"  asked  Philip,  quickly. 

Lorimer  stopped  in  his  walk,  and,  leaning  against  the  deck 
railings,  looked  his  friend  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Unless  you  settle  the  matter,"  he  said  with  a  slight  effort. 
"You  love  her — tell  her  so!" 

Errington  laid  one  hand  earnestly  on  his  shoulder. 

"Ah,  George,  you  don't  understand!"  he  said  in  a  low  tone, 
while  his  face  was  grave  and  full  of  trouble.  "I  used  to  think 
I  was  fairly  brave,  but  I  find  I  am  a  positive  coward.  I  dare 
not  tell  her!  She — Thelma — is  not  like  other  women.  You 
may  think  me  a  fool — I  dare  say  you  do — but  I  swear  to  you  I 
am  afraid  to  speak,  because — ^because,  old  boy — if  she  were  to 
refuge  me — if  I  knew  there  was  no  hope — well,  I  don't  want 
to  be  sentimental — but  my  life  would  be  utterly  empty  and 
worthless — so  useless  that  I  doubt  if  I  should  care  to  live  it 
out  to  the  bitter  end!" 

Lorimer  heard  him  in  silence — a  silence  maintained  partly 
out  of  sympathy,  and  partly  that  he  might  keep  his  own  feel- 
ings well  under  control. 

"But  why  persist  in  looking  at  the  gloomy  side  of  the  pic- 
ture?" he  said,  at  last.    "Suppose  she  loves  you?" 

"Suppose  an  angel  flew  down  from  heaven!"  replied  Philip, 


158  THELMA. 

with  rather  a  sad  smile.  "My  dear  fellow,  who  am  I  that  I 
should  flatter  myself  so  far?  If  she  were  one  of  those  ordi- 
nary women  to  whom  marriage  is  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  of 
existence,  it  would  be  diif  erent — but  she  is  not.  Her  thoughts 
are  like  those  of  a  child  or  a  poet — why  should  I  trouble  them 
by  the  selfishness  of  my  passion?  for  all  passion  is  selfish  even 
at  its  best.  Why  should  I  venture  to  break  the  calm  friend- 
ship she  may  have  for  me  by  telling  her  of  a  love  which  might 
prove  unwelcome?" 

Lorimer  looked  at  him  with  a  gentle  amusement  depicted  in 
his  face. 

"Phil,  you  are  less  conceited  than  I  thought  you  were,"  he 
said,  with  a  light  laugh,  "or  else  you  are  blind — ^blind  as  a 
bat,  old  man!  Take  my  advice — don't  lose  any  more  time 
about  it.  Make  the  'king's  daughter  of  Norroway'  happy,"  and 
a  brief  sigh  escaped  him.  "You  are  the  man  to  do  it.  I  am 
surprised  at  your  density;  Sigurd,  the  lunatic,  has  more  per- 
ception. He  sees  which  way  the  wind  blows — and  that's  why 
he's  so  desperately  unhappy.  He  thinks — and  thinks  rightly, 
too — that  he  will  lose  his  'beautiful  rose  of  the  northern  for- 
est,' as  he  calls  her — and  that  you  are  to  be  the  robber.  Hence 
his  dislike  to  you.  Dear  me!"  and  Lorimer  lighted  a  cigarette 
and  puffed  at  it  complacently.  "It  seems  to  me  that  my 
wits  are  becoming  sharper  as  I  grow  older,  and  that  yours, 
my  dear  boy — pardon  me! — are  getting  somewhat  blunted, 
otherwise  you  would  certainly  have  perceived — "  he  broke  off 
abruptly. 

"Well,  go  on!"  exclaimed  Philip,  eagerly,  with  flashing 
eyes.    "Perceived  what?" 

Lorimer  laughed.  "That  the  boat  containing  your  sun- 
empress  is  coming  along  very  rapidly,  old  fellow,  and  that 
you'd  better  make  haste  to  receive  her!" 

This  was  the  fact — and  Duprez  had  risen  from  his  chair  and 
was  waving  his  French  newspaper  energetically  to  the  ap- 
proaching visitors.  Errington  hastened  to  the  gangway  with 
a  brighter  flush  than  usual  on  his  handsome  face,  and  his 
heart  beating  with  a  new  sense  of  exhilaration  and  excitement. 
If  Lorimer's  hints  had  any  foundation  of  truth — if  Thelma 
loved  him  ever  so  little — how  wild  a  dream  it  seemed! — why 
not  risk  his  fate?  He  resolved  to  speak  to  her  that  very  day 
if  opportunity  favored  him — and,  having  thus  decided,  felt 
quite  masterful  and  heroic  about  it. 


THELMA.  159 

This  feeling  of  proud  and  tender  elation  increased  when 
Thelma  stepped  on  deck  that  morning  and  laid  her  hands  in 
his.  For,  as  he  greeted  her  and  her  father,  he  saw  at  a  glance 
that  she  was  slightly  changed.  Some  restless  dream  must 
have  haunted  her — or  his  hurried  words  beneath  the  porch, 
when  he  parted  from  her  the  previous  evening,  had  startled 
her  and  troubled  her  mind.  Her  blue  eyes  were  no  longer 
raised  to  his  in  absolute  candor — her  voice  was  timid,  and  she 
had  lost  something  of  her  usual  buoyant  and  graceful  self- 
possession.  But  she  looked  lovelier  than  ever  with  that  air 
of  shy  hesitation  and  appealing  sweetness.  Love  had  thrown 
his  network  of  light  about  her  soul  and  body  till,  like  Keats's 
"Madeleine," 

"She  seemed  a  splendid  angel  newly  drest 
Save  wings,  for  heaven!" 

As  soon  as  the  Guldmars  were  on  board,  the  anchor  was 
weighed  with  many  a  cheery  and  musical  cry  from  the  sailors; 
the  wheel  revolved  rapidly  under  Valdemar  Svensen's  firm 
hand — and  with  a  grand  outward  sweeping  courtesy  to  the 
majestic  fjord  she  left  behind  her,  the  "Eulalie"  steamed 
away,  cutting  a  glittering  line  of  white  foam  through  the 
smooth  water  as  she  went,  and  threading  her  way  swiftly 
among  the  clustering  picturesque  islands — while  the  inhabi- 
tants of  every  little  farm  and  hamlet  on  the  shores  stopped  for 
awhile  in  their  occupations  to  stare  at  the  superb  vessel,  and 
to  dreamily  envy  the  wealth  of  the  English  Herren  who  could 
afford  to  pass  the  summer  months  in  such  luxury  and  idleness. 
Thelma  seated  herself  at  once  by  Duprez,  and  seemed  glad  to 
divert  attention  from  herself  to  him. 

"You  are  better.  Monsieur  Duprez,  are  you  not?"  she  asked, 
gently.  "We  saw  Sigurd  this  morning;  he  came  home  last 
night.    He  is  very,  very  sorry  to  have  hurt  you!" 

"He  need  not  apologize,"  said  Duprez,  cheerfully.  '1  am 
delighted  he  gave  me  this  scar,  otherwise  I  am  confident  he 
would  have  put  out  the  eye  of  the  Phil-eep.  And  that  would 
have  been  a  misfortune!  For  what  would  the  ladies  in  Lon- 
don say  if  le  beau  Errington  returned  to  them  with  one  eye! 
Mon  Dieu!  they  would  all  be  au  desespoirr 

Thelma  looked  up.  Philip  was  standing  at  some  little  dis- 
tance with  Olaf  Guldmar  and  Lorimer,  talking  and  laughing 
gayly.    His  cap  was  pushed  slightly  off  his  forehead,  and  the 


160  THELMA, 

sun  shone  on  his  thick  dark  chestnut  curls;  his  features, 
warmly  colored  by  the  wind  and  sea,  were  lighted  up  with 
mirth,  and  his  even  white  teeth  sparkled  in  an  irresistible 
smile  of  fascinating  good  humor.  He  was  the  beau  ideal  of 
the  best  type  of  Englishman  in  the  full  tide  of  youth,  health 
and  good  spirits. 

"I  suppose  he  is  a  great  favorite  with  all  those  beautiful 
ladies?"  she  asked,  very  quietly. 

Something  of  gentle  resignation  in  her  tone  struck  the 
Frenchman's  sense  of  chivalry;  had  she  been  like  any  ordi- 
nary woman,  bent  on  conquest,  he  would  have  taken  mis- 
chievous delight  in  inventing  a  long  list  of  fair  ones  supposed 
to  be  deeply  enamored  of  Errington's  good  looks — but  this 
girl's  innocent  inquiring  face  inspired  him  with  quite  a  differ- 
ent sentiment. 

''Mais  certainement!"  he  said,  frankly  and  emphatically. 
*Thil-eep  is  a  favorite  everywhere!  Yet  not  more  so  with 
women  than  with  men.  I  love  him  extremely — he  is  a  charm- 
ing boy!  Then  you  see,  chere  mademoiselle,  he  is  rich — very 
rich — and  there  are  so  many  pretty  girls  who  are  very  poor — 
naturally  they  are  enchanted  with  our  Errington — voyez 
vousf" 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  said,  with  a  puzzled  brow.  "It 
is  not  possible  that  they  should  like  him  better  because  he  is 
rich.  He  would  be  the  same  man  without  money  as  with  it — 
it  makes  no  difference!" 

"Perhaps  not  to  you,"  returned  Duprez,  with  a  smile;  "but 
to  many  it  would  make  an  immense  difference!  Chere  made- 
moiselle, it  is  a  grand  thing  to  have  plenty  of  money — ^believe 
me!" 

Thelma  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Perhaps,"  she  answered, 
indifferently.  "But  one  can  not  spend  much  on  one's  self, 
after  all.  The  nuns  at  Aries  used  to  tell  me  that  poverty  was 
a  virtue,  and  that  to  be  very  rich  was  to  be  very  miserable. 
They  were  poor — all  those  good  women — and  they  were  al- 
ways cheerful." 

"The  nuns!  ah,  mon  Dieu!"  cried  Duprez.  "The  darlings 
know  not  the  taste  of  joy — they  speak  of  what  they  can  not 
understand!  How  should  they  know  what  it  is  to  be  happy  or 
unhappy  when  they  bar  their  great  convent  doors  against  the 
very  name  of  love!" 

She  looked  at  him,  and  her  color  rose. 


THELMA.  161 

"You  always  talk  of  love/'  she  said,  half  reproachfully,  "as 
if  it  were  so  common  a  tiling!  You  know  it  is  sacred — why 
will  you  speak  as  if  it  were  all  a  jest  ?" 

A  strange  emotion  of  admiring  tenderness  stirred  Pierre's 
heart — he  was  very  impulsive  and  impressionable. 

"Forgive  me!"  he  murmured,  penitently;  then  he  added 
suddenly:  "You  should  have  lived  ages  ago,  ma  Mle — the 
world  of  to-day  will  not  suit  you!  You  will  be  made  very 
sorrowful  in  it,  I  assure  you — it  is  not  a  place  for  good 
women!" 

She  laughed.  "You  are  morose,"  she  said.  "That  is  not 
like  you!  No  one  is  good — we  all  live  to  try  and  make  our- 
selves better." 

"What  highly  moral  converse  is  going  on  here?"  inquired 
Lorimer,  strolling  leisurely  up  to  them.  "Are  you  giving 
Duprez  a  lecture,  Miss  Guldmar?  He  needs  it — so  do  I. 
Please  give  me  a  scolding!" 

And  he  folded  his  hands  with  an  air  of  demure  appeal, 

A  sunny  smile  danced  in  the  girl's  blue  eyes.  "Always  you 
will  be  foolish!"  she  said.  "One  can  never  know  you,  because 
I  am  sure  you  never  show  your  real  self  to  anybody.  No — I 
will  not  scold  you — but  I  should  like  to  find  you  out!" 

"To  find  me  out!"  echoed  Lorimer.  "Why,  what  do  you 
mean?" 

She  nodded  her  bright  head  with  much  sagacity. 

"Ah,  I  do  observe  you  often.  There  is  something  you  hide; 
it  is  like  when  my  father  has  tears  in  his  eyes,  he  pretends  to 
laugh,  but  the  tears  are  there  all  the  time.  Now  I  see  in 
you" — she  paused,  and  her  questioning  eyes  rested  on  his 
seriously. 

"This  is  interesting!"  said  Lorimer,  lazily  drawing  a  camp- 
stool  opposite  to  her,  and  seating  himself  thereon.  "I  had  no 
idea  I  was  a  human  riddle.    Can  you  read  me.  Miss  Guldmar?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  slowly  and  meditatively.  "Just  a 
little.  But  I  will  not  say  anything;  no — except  this — that  you 
are  not  altogether  what  you  seem." 

"Here,  Phil!"  called  Lorimer,  as  he  saw  Errington  ap- 
proaching, arm  in  arm  with  Olaf  Guldmar,  "come  and  admire 
this  young  lady's  power  of  perception.  She  declares  I  am  not 
such  a  fool  as  I  look!" 

"Now,"  said  Thelma,  shaking  her  forefinger  at  him,  "you 
know  very  well  that  I  did  not  put  it  in  that  way.  But  is  it  not 
11 


162  THELMA. 

true.  Sir  Philip" — ^and  she  looked  up  for  a  moment,  though 
her  eyes  drooped  again  swiftly  under  his  ardent  gaze,  "is  it  not 
true  that  many  people  do  hide  their  feelings,  and  pretend  to 
be  quite  different  to  what  they  are?" 

"I  should  say  it  was  a  very  common  fault,"  replied  Erring- 
ton.  "It  is  a  means  of  self-defense  against  the  impertinent 
curiosity  of  outsiders.  But  Lorimer  is  free  from  it — he  has 
nothing  to  hide.  At  any  rate,  he  has  no  secrets  from  me — I 
am  sure  of  that!"  And  he  clapped  his  hand  heartily  on  his 
friend's  shoulder. 

Lorimer  flushed  slightly,  but  made  no  remark,  and  at  that 
moment  Macfarlane  emerged  from  the  saloon,  where  the  writ- 
ing of  his  journal  had  till  now  detained  him.  In  the  general 
hand-shaking  and  salutations  which  followed,  the  conversa- 
tion took  a  different  turn,  for  wliich  Lorimer  was  devoutly 
thankful.  Her  face  was  a  tell-tale  one — and  he  was  rather 
afraid  of  Philip's  keen  eyes,  "I  hope  to  heaven  he'll  speak 
to  her  to-day,"  he  thought,  vexedly.  "I  hate  being  in  sus- 
pense! My  mind  will  be  easier  when  I  once  know  that  he  has 
gained  his  point — and  that  there's  not  the  ghost  of  a  chance 
for  any  other  fellow!" 

Meanwhile  the  yacht  skimmed  along  by  the  barren  and 
rocky  coast  of  Seiland;  the  sun  was  dazzling;  yet  there  was  a 
mist  in  the  air  as  though  the  heavens  were  full  of  unshed 
tears.  A  bank  of  nearly  motionless  clouds  hung  behind  the 
dark,  sharp  peaks  of  the  Altenguard  mountains,  which  now 
lay  to  the  southward,  as  the  vessel  pursued  her  course.  There 
was  no  wind;  the  flag  on  the  mast  flapped  idly  now  and  then 
with  the  motion  of  the  yacht;  and  Thelma  found  herself  too 
warm  with  her  pretty  crimson  hood — she  therefore  unfastened 
it  and  let  the  sunshine  play  on  the  uncovered  gold  of  her  hair. 
They  had  a  superb  view  of  the  jagged  glacier  of  Jedke — black 
in  some  parts,  and  in  others  white  with  unmelted  snow — and 
seeming,  as  it  rose  straight  up  against  the  sky,  to  be  the 
majestic  monument  of  some  giant  Viking,  Presently,  at  her 
earnest  request,  Errington  brought  his  portfolio  of  Norwegian 
sketches  for  Thelma  to  look  at;  most  of  them  were  excellently 
well  done,  and  elicited  much  admiration  from  the  bonde, 

"It  is  what  I  have  wondered  at  all  my  life,"  said  he,  "that 
skill  of  the  brush  dipped  in  color.  Pictures  surprise  me  as 
much  as  poems.  Ah,  men  are  marvelous  creatures,  when  they 
are  once  brought  to   understand    that   they    are    men — not 


THELMA.  163 

beasts!  One  will  take  a  few  words  and  harmonize  them  into  a 
song  or  a  verse  that  clings  to  the  world  forever;  another  will 
mix  a  few  paints  and  daub  a  brush  in  them,  and  give  you  a 
picture  that  generation  after  generation  shall  flock  to  see.  It 
is  what  is  called  genius — and  genius  is  a  sort  of  miracle.  Yet 
I  think  it  is  fostered  by  climate  a  good  deal — the  further 
north,  the  less  inspiration.  "Warmth,  color,  and  the  lightness 
of  heart  that  a  generally  bright  sky  brings  enlarges  the  brain 
and  makes  it  capable  of  creative  power." 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Lorimer,  "England  does  not  possess 
these  climatic  advantages,  and  yet  Shakespeare  was  an  Eng- 
lishman." 

"He  must  have  traveled,"  returned  Guldmar,  positively. 
"No  one  will  make  me  believe  that  the  man  never  visited 
Italy.  His  Italian  scenes  prove  it — they  are  full  of  the  place 
and  the  people.  The  whole  of  his  works,  full  of  such  wonder- 
ful learning  and  containing  so  many  types  of  different  nations, 
show — to  my  mind,  at  least — that  countries  were  his  books  of 
study.  Why  I,  who  am  only  a  farmer,  and  proprietor  of  a  bit 
of  Norwegian  land — I  have  learned  many  a  thing  from  simply 
taking  a  glance  at  a  new  shore  each  year.  That's  the  way  I 
used  to  amuse  myself  when  I  was  young — now  I  am  old,  the 
sea  tempts  me  less,  and  I  am  fonder  of  my  arm-chair;  yet  I've 
seen  a  good  deal  in  my  time — enough  to  provide  me  with 
memories  for  my  declining  days.  And  it's  a  droll  thing,  too," 
he  added,  with  a  laugh,  "the  further  south  you  go,  the  more 
immoral  and  merry  are  the  people;  the  further  north  the  more 
virtuous  and  miserable.  There's  a  wrong  balance  somewhere 
— but  where,  'tis  not  easy  to  find  out." 

"Weel,"  said  Macfarlane,  "I  can  give  ye  a  direct  contradeec- 
tion  to  your  theory.  Scotland  lies  to  the  north,  and  ye'll  not 
find  a  grander  harvest  o'  sinfu'  souls  anywhere  between  this 
an'  the  day  o'  judgment.  I'm  a  Scotchman,  an'  I'm  just 
proud  o'  my  country — I'd  back  its  men  against  a'  the  human 
race — but  I  wadna  say  much  for  the  stabeelity  o'  its  women. 
I  wad  just  tak  to  my  heels  and  run  if  I  saw  a  real,  thumpin', 
red-cheeked,  big-boned  Scotch  lassie  makin'  up  to  me. 
There's  nae  bashfulness  in  they  sort,  and  nae  safety." 

"I  will  go  to  Scotland!"  said  Duprez,  enthusiastically.  "I 
feel  that  those — what  do  you  call  them,  lassies? — will  charm 
me!" 

"Scotland  I  never  saw,"  said  Guldmar.    "From  all  I  have 


164  THELMA. 

heard,  it  seems  to  me  'twould  be  too  much  like  Norway.  After 
one's  eyes  have  rested  long  on  these  dark  mountains  and 
glaciers,  one  likes  now  and  then  to  see  a  fertile,  sunshiny 
stretch  of  country  such  as  France,  or  the  plains  of  Lombardy. 
Of  course  there  may  be  exceptions,  but  I  tell  you  climatic 
influences  have  a  great  deal  to  do  Math  the  state  of  mind  and 
morals.  Now,  take  the  example  of  that  miserable  old  Lovisa 
Elsland.  She  is  the  victim  of  religious  mania — and  religious 
mania,  together  with  superstition  of  the  most  foolish  kind,  is 
common  in  Norway.  It  happens  often  during  the  long  win- 
ters; the  people  have  not  sufficient  to  occupy  their  minds;  no 
clergyman — not  even  Dyceworthy — can  satisfy  the  height  of 
their  fanaticism.  They  preach  and  pray  and  shriek  and  groan 
in  their  huts;  some  swear  that  they  have  the  spirit  of 
prophecy — others  that  they  are  possessed  of  devils — others 
imagine  witchcraft,  like  Lovisa — and  altogether  there  is  such 
a  howling  on  the  name  of  Christ  that  I  am  glad  to  be  out  of  it 
— for  'tis  a  sight  to  awaken  the  laughter  and  contempt  of  a 
pagan  such  as  I  am!" 

Thelma  listened  with  a  slight  shadow  of  pain  on  her 
features. 

"Father  is  not  a  pagan,"  she  declared,  turning  to  Lorimer. 
*'How  can  one  be  pagan  if  one  believes  that  there  is  good  in 
everything — and  that  nothing  happens  except  for  the  best?'* 

"It  sounds  to  me  more  Christian  than  pagan,"  averred  Lori- 
mer, with  a  smile.  "But  it's  no  use  appealing  to  me  on  such 
matters.  Miss  Guldmar.  I  am  an  advocate  of  the  Law  of 
Nothing.  I  remember  a  worthy  philosopher  who — when  he 
was  in  his  cups — earnestly  assured  me  it  was  all  right — 'every- 
thing was  nothing,  and  nothing  was  everything.'  'You  are 
sure  that  is  so?'  I  would  say  to  him.  'My  dear  young  friend 
— hie — I  am  positive!  I  have — hie — worked  out  the  problem 
with — hie — care!'  And  he  would  shake  me  by  the  hand 
warmly,  with  a  mild  and  moist  smile,  and  would  retire  to  bed 
walking  sideways  in  the  most  amiable  manner.  I'm  certain 
his  ideas  were  correct  as  well  as  luminous." 

They  laughed,  and  then  looking  up  saw  that  they  were 
passing  a  portion  of  the  coast  of  Seiland  that  was  more  than 
usually  picturesque.  Facing  them  was  a  great  cavernous  cleft 
in  the  rocks,  tinted  with  a  curious  violet  hue  intermingled 
with  bronze — and  in  the  strong  sunlight  these  colors  flashed 
with  the  brilliancy  of  jewels^  reflecting  themselves  in  the  pale 


THELMA.  165 

slate-colored  sea.  By  Errington's  orders  the  yacht  slackened 
speed,  and  glided  along  with  an  almost  noiseless  motion — and 
they  were  silent,  hstening  to  the  dash  and  drip  of  water  that 
fell  invisibly  from  the  toppling  crags  that  frowned  above, 
while  the  breathless  heat  and  stillness  of  the  air  added  to  the 
weird  solemnity  of  the  scene.  They  all  rose  from  their  chairs 
and  leaned  on  the  deck  rails,  looking,  but  uttering  no  word. 

"In  one  of  these  islands,"  said  Thelma,  at  last,  very  softly — 
it  was  either  Seiland  or  Soroe — they  once  found  the  tomb  of 
a  great  chief.  There  was  an  inscription  outside  that  warned 
all  men  to  respect  it,  but  they  laughed  at  the  warning  and 
opened  the  tomb.  And  they  saw,  seated  in  a  stone  chair,  a 
skeleton  with  a  gold  crown  on  its  head  and  a  great  carved  seal 
in  its  hand,  and  at  its  feet  there  was  a  stone  casket.  The 
casket  was  broken  open,  and  it  was  full  of  gold  and  Jewels. 
Well,  they  took  all  the  gold  and  jewels  and  buried  the  skele- 
ton— and  now — do  you  know  what  happens?  At  midnight  a 
number  of  strange  persons  are  seen  searching  on  the  shore 
and  among  the  rocks  for  the  lost  treasure,  and  it  is  said  they 
often  utter  cries  of  anger  and  despair.  And  those  who  robbed 
the  tomb  all  died  suddenly." 

"Served  them  right!"  said  Lorimer.  "And  now  they  are 
dead,  I  suppose  the  wronged  ghosts  don't  appear  any  more?" 

"Oh,  yes,  they  do,"  said  Guldmar,  very  seriously.  "If  any 
sailor  passes  at  midnight  and  sees  them  or  hears  their  cries, 
he  is  doomed." 

"But  does  he  see  or  hear  them?"  asked  Errington,  with  a 
smile. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  returned  Guldmar,  with  a  grave 
shake  of  his  head.  "I'm  not  superstitious  myself,  but  I  should 
be  sorry  to  say  anything  against  the  berg-folk.  You  see  they 
may  exist,  and  it's  no  use  offending  them." 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by  the  berg-folk?"  inquired  Mac- 
farlane. 

"They  are  supposed  to  be  the  souls  of  persons  who  died 
impenitent,"  said  Thelma,  "and  they  are  doomed  to  wander 
on  the  hills  till  the  day  of  judgment.  It  is  a  sort  of  purga- 
tory." 

Duprez  shook  his  fingers  emphatically  in  the  air. 

"Ah,  bah!"  he  said,  "what  droll  things  remain  still  in  the 
world!  Yes,  in  spite  of  hberty,  equality,  fraternity!  You  do 
not  beheve  in  foolish  legends,  mademoiselle?  For  example — 
do  you  think  you  will  suffer  purgatory?" 


166  THELMA. 

"Indeed,  yes!"  she  replied,  "no  one  can  be  good  enough  to 
go  straight  to  heaven.  There  must  be  some  little  stop  on  the 
way  in  which  to  be  sorry  for  all  the  bad  things  one  has 
done/' 

"  'Tis  the  same  idea  as  ours,"  said  Guldmar.  "We  have  two 
places  of  punishment  in  the  Norse  faith;  one,  Nifleheim, 
which  is  a  temporary  thing  Uke  the  Catholic  purgatory;  the 
other  Nastrond,  which  is  the  counterpart  of  the  Christian  hell. 
Know  you  not  the  description  of  Nifieheim  in  the  Edda? — 'tis 
terrible  enough  to  satisfy  all  tastes.  'Hela,  or  Death,  rules 
over  the  Nine  Worlds  of  Nifieheim.  Her  hall  is  called  Grief. 
Famine  is  her  table,  and  her  only  servant  is  Delay.  Her  gate 
is  a  precipice,  her  porch  Faintness,  her  bed  Leanness — Curs- 
ing and  Howling  are  her  tent.  Her  glance  is  dreadful  and 
terrifying — and  her  lips  are  blue  with  the  venom  of  Hatred.' 
These  words,"  he  added,  "sound  finer  in  Norwegian,  but  I 
have  given  the  meaning  fairly." 

"Ma  certes!"  said  Macfarlane,  chuckling.  "I'll  tell  my  aunt 
in  Glasgie  aboot  it.  This  Nifieheim  wad  suit  her  pairfectly — 
she  wad  send  a'  her  relations  there  wi'  tourist  tickets,  not 
available  for  the  return  journey!" 

"It  seems  to  me,"  observed  Errington,  "that  the  Nine 
Worlds  of  Nifieheim  have  a  resemblance  to  the  different  cir- 
cles of  Dante's  Purgatory." 

"Exactly  so,"  said  Lorimer.  "All  religions  seem  to  me  to 
be  more  or  less  the  same — the  question  I  can  never  settle  is — 
which  is  the  right  one?" 

"Would  you  follow  it  if  you  knew?"  asked  Thelma,  with  a 
slight  smile.    Lorimer  laughed. 

"Well,  upon  my  life  I  don't  know,"  he  answered  frankly. 
"I  never  was  a  praying  sort  of  fellow — I  don't  seem  to  grasp 
the  idea  of  it  somehow.  But  there's  one  thing  I'm  certain  of 
— I  can't  endure  a  bird  without  song — a  fiower  without  scent, 
or  a  woman  without  religion — she  seems  to  me  no  woman 
at  all." 

"But  are  there  any  such  women?"  asked  the  girl,  sur- 
prised. 

'TTes,  there  are  undoubtedly!  Free-thinking,  stump-orator, 
have-your-rights  sort  of  creatures.  You  don't  know  anything 
about  them.  Miss  Guldmar — be  thankful!  Now,  Phil,  how 
long  is  this  vessel  of  yours  going  to  linger  here?" 

Thus  reminded,  Errington  called  to  the  pilot,  and  in  a  few 


THBLMA.  167 

minutes  the  "Eulalie"  resumed  her  usual  speed,  and  bore 
swiftly  on  toward  Soroe.  This  island,  dreary  and  dark  in  the 
distance,  grew  somewhat  more  inviting  in  aspect  on  a  nearer 
approach.  Now  and  then  a  shaft  fell  on  some  glittering  point 
of  feldspar  or  green  patch  of  verdure^ — and  Valdemar  Svensen 
stated  that  he  knew  of  a  sandy  creek  where,  if  the  party  chose, 
they  could  land  and  see  a  small  cave  of  exquisite  beauty,  liter- 
ally hung  all  over  with  stalactites. 

"I  never  heard  of  this  cave,"  said  Guldmar,  fixing  a  keen 
eye  on  the  pilot.  "Art  thou  a  traveler's  guide  to  all  such 
places  in  Norway?" 

Somewhat  to  Errington's  surprise,  Svensen  changed  color 
and  appeared  confused;  moreover,  he  removed  his  red  cap 
altogether  when  he  answered  the  bonde,  to  whom  he  spoke 
deferentially  in  rapid  Norwegian.  The  old  man  laughed  as 
he  listened,  and  seemed  satisfied;  then,  turning  away,  he 
linked  his  arm  through  Philip's  and  said: 

"You  must  pardon  him,  my  lad,  that  he  spoke  in  your  pres- 
ence a  tongue  unfamiliar  to  you.  No  offense  was  meant.  He 
is  of  my  creed,  but  fears  to  make  it  known,  lest  he  should  lose 
all  employment — which  is  likely  enough,  seeing  that  so  many 
of  the  people  are  fanatics.  Moreover,  he  is  bound  to  me  by 
an  oath — which  in  olden  days  would  have  made  him  my  serf 
— but  which  leaves  him  free  enough  just  now — with  one 
exception." 

"And  that  exception?"  asked  Errington,  with  some  interest. 

"Is,  that  should  I  ever  demand  a  certain  service  at  his 
hands,  he  dare  not  refuse  it.  Odd,  isn't  it?  or  so  it  seems  to 
you,"  and  Guldmar  pressed  the  young  man's  arm  Hghtly  and 
kindly;  "but  our  Norse  oaths  are  taken  with  great  solemnity, 
and  are  as  binding  as  the  obligation  of  death  itself.  However, 
I  have  not  commanded  Valdemar's  obedience  yet,  nor  do  I 
think  I  am  likely  to  do  so  for  some  time.  He  is  a  fine,  faithful 
fellow — though  too  much  given  to  dreams." 

A  gay  chorus  of  laughter  here  broke  from  the  little  group 
seated  on  deck,  of  which  Thelma  was  the  center — and  Guld- 
mar stopped  in  his  walk,  with  an  attentive  smile  on  his  open, 
ruddy  countenance. 

"  'Tis  good  for  the  heart  to  hear  the  merriment  of  young 
folks,"  he  said.  "Think  you  not  my  girl's  laugh  is  like  the 
ripple  of  a  lark's  song — just  so  clear  and  joyous?" 

"Her  voice  is  music  itself!"  declared  Philip,  quickly  and 


168  THELMA. 

warmly.  "There  is  nothing  she  says,  or  does,  or  looks— that 
is  not  absolutely  beautiful!" 

Then,  suddenly  aware  of  his  precipitation,  he  stopped 
abruptly.  His  face  flushed  as  Guldmar  regarded  him  fixedly, 
with  a  musing  and  doubtful  air.  But  whatever  the  old  man 
thought,  he  said  nothing.  He  merely  held  the  young  bar- 
onet's arm  a  Httle  closer,  and  together  they  joined  the  others 
— though  it  was  noticeable  that  during  the  rest  of  the  day  the 
bonde  was  rather  abstracted  and  serious — and  that  every  now 
and  then  his  eyes  rested  on  his  daughter's  face  with  an  expres- 
sion of  tender  yearning  and  melancholy. 

It  was  about  two  hours  after  luncheon  that  the  "Eulalie" 
approached  the  creek  spoken  of  by  the  pilot,  and  they  were 
all  fascinated  by  the  loveliness,  as  well  as  by  the  fierce  gran- 
deur of  the  scene.  The  rocks  on  that  portion  of  Soroe  ap- 
peared to  have  split  violently  asunder  to  admit  some  great 
in-rushing  passage  of  the  sea,  and  were  piled  up  in  toppling 
terraces  to  the  height  of  more  than  two  thousand  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  water.  Beneath  these  wild  and  craggy  for- 
tresses of  nature  a  shining  stretch  of  beach  had  formed  itself, 
on  which  the  fine  white  sand  mixed  with  crushed  feldspar 
sparkled  like  powdered  silver.  On  the  left  hand  side  of  this 
beach  could  be  distinctly  seen  the  round  opening  of  the  cavern 
to  which  Valdemar  Svensen  directed  their  attention.  They 
decided  to  visit  it — the  yacht  was  brought  to  a  standstill,  and 
the  long-boat  lowered.  They  took  no  sailors  with  them, 
Errington  and  his  companions  rowing  four  oars,  while  Thelma 
and  her  father  occupied  the  stern.  A  landing  was  easily 
effected,  and  they  walked  toward  the  cavern,  treading  on  thou- 
sands of  beautiful  little  shells  which  strewed  the  sand  beneath 
their  feet.  There  was  a  deep  stillness  everywhere — the  island 
was  so  desolate  that  it  seemed  as  though  the  very  sea  birds 
refused  to  make  their  homes  in  the  black  clefts  of  such  steep 
and  barren  rocks. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  little  cave  Guldmar  looked  back  to 
the  sea. 

"There's  a  storm  coming!"  he  announced.  "Those  clouds 
we  saw  this  morning  have  sailed  thither  almost  as  quickly  as 
ourselves." 

The  sky  had  indeed  grown  darker,  and  little  wrinkling 
waves  disturbed  the  surface  of  the  water.  But  the  sun  as  yet 
retained  his  sovereignty,  and  there  was  no  wind.      By  the 


THELMA.  169 

pilot's  advice,  Errington  and  his  friends  had  provided  them- 
selves each  with  a  pine  torch,  in  order  to  light  up  the  cavern 
as  soon  as  they  found  themselves  within  it.  The  smoky 
crimson  flare  illuminated  what  seemed  at  a  first  glance  to  be 
a  miniature  fairy  palace  studded  thickly  with  clusters  of  dia- 
monds. Long  pointed  stalactites  hung  from  the  roof  at  almost 
mathematically  even  distances  from  one  another — the  walls 
glistened  with  varying  shades  of  pink  and  green  and  violet — 
and  in  the  very  midst  of  the  cave  was  a  still  pool  of  water  in 
which  all  the  fantastic  forms  and  hues  of  the  place  mirrored 
themselves  in  miniature.  In  one  corner  the  stalactites  had 
clustered  into  the  shape  of  a  large  chair  overhung  by  a  canopy, 
and  Duprez  perceiving  it,  exclaimed: 

'^Voila!  A  queen's  throne!  Come,  Mademoiselle  Guldmar, 
you  must  sit  in  it!" 

"But  I  am  not  a  queen,"  laughed  Thelma.  "A  throne  is  for 
a  king,  also — will  not  Sir  Philip  sit  there?" 

"There's  a  compliment  for  you,  Phil!"  cried  Lorimer,  wav- 
ing his  torch  enthusiastically.  "Let  us  awaken  the  echoes 
with  the  shout  of  'Long  live  the  king!'  " 

But  Errington  approached  Thelma,  and  taking  her  hand  in 
his,  said  gently: 

"Come!  let  me  see  you  throned  in  state.  Queen  Thelma! 
To  please  me — come!" 

She  looked  up — the  flame  of  the  bright  torch  he  carried 
illumined  his  face,  on  which  love  had  written  what  she  could 
not  fail  to  read — hut  she  trembled  as  with  cold,  and  there  was 
a  kind  of  appealing  wonder  in  her  troubled  eyes.  He  drew 
closer  and  pressed  her  hand  more  tightly;  again  he  whispered: 
"Come,  Queen  Thelma!"  As  in  a  dream,  she  allowed  him  to 
lead  her  to  the  stalactite  chair,  and  when  she  was  seated 
therein,  she  endeavored  to  control  the  rapid  beating  of  her 
heart  and  to  smile  unconcernedly  on  the  little  group  that  sur- 
rounded her  with  shouts  of  mingled  mirth  and  admiration. 

"Ye  just  look  fine!"  said  Macfarlane  with  undisguised  de- 
light. "She'd  mak'  a  grand  picture,  wouldn't  she,  Erring- 
ton?" 

Philip  gazed  at  her,  but  said  nothing — his  heart  was  too  full. 
Sitting  there  among  the  glittering,  intertwisted  and  suspended 
rocks — ^with  the  blaze  from  the  torches  flashing  on  her  win- 
some face  and  luxuriant  hair — with  that  half-troubled,  half- 
happy  look  in  her  eyes,  and  an  uncertain  shadowy  smile 


170  THELMA. 

quivering  on  her  sweet  lips,  the  girl  looked  almost  danger- 
ously lovely — Helen  of  Troy  could  scarce  have  fired  more 
passionate  emotion  among  the  old-world  heroes  than  she 
unconsciously  excited  at  that  moment  in  the  minds  of  all  who 
beheld  her.  Duprez  for  once  understood  what  it  was  to 
reverence  a  woman's  beauty,  and  decided  that  the  flippant 
language  of  compliment  was  out  of  place — he  therefore  said 
nothing,  and  Lorimer,  too,  was  silent,  battling  bravely  against 
wild  desires  that  were  now,  in  his  opinion,  nothing  but  dis- 
loyalty to  his  friend.  Old  Guldmar's  hearty  voice  aroused 
and  startled  them  all. 

"ISTow,  Thelma,  child!  If  thou  art  a  queen,  give  orders  to 
these  lads  to  be  moving!  'Tis  a  damp  place  to  hold  a  court 
in,  and  thy  throne  must  needs  be  a  cold  one.  Let  us  out  to 
the  blessed  sunshine  again — may  be  we  can  climb  one  of  yon 
wild  rocks  and  get  a  view  worth  seeing." 

"All  right,  sir!"  said  Lorimer,  chivalrously  resolving  that 
now  Errington  should  have  a  chance.  "Come  on,  Mac!  Al- 
lans, marcho7is — Pierre!  Mr.  Guldmar  exacts  our  obedience! 
Phil,  you  take  care  of  the  queen!" 

And  skillfully  pushing  on  Duprez  and  Macfarlane  before 
him,  he  followed  Guldmar,  who  preceded  them  all — thus 
leaving  his  friend  in  a  momentary  comparative  solitude  with 
Thelma.  The  girl  was  a  little  startled  as  she  saw  them  thus 
taking  their  departure,  and  sprung  up  from  her  stalactite 
throne  in  haste.  Sir  Philip  had  laid  aside  his  torch  in  order 
to  assist  her  with  both  hands  to  descend  the  sloping  rocks; 
but  her  embarrassment  at  being  left  almost  alone  with  him 
made  her  nervous  and  uncertain  of  foot — she  was  hurried  and 
agitated  and  anxious  to  overtake  the  others,  and  in  trying  to 
walk  quickly  she  slipped  and  nearly  fell.  In  one  second  she 
was  caught  in  his  arms  and  clasped  passionately  to  his  heart. 

"Thelma!  Thelma!"  he  whispered,  "I  love  you,  my  darling 
— I  love  you!" 

She  trembled  in  his  strong  embrace,  and  strove  to  release 
herself,  but  he  pressed  her  more  closely  to  him,  scarcely 
knowing  that  he  did  so,  but  feeling  that  he  held  the  world, 
life,  time,  happiness  and  salvation  in  this  one  fair  creature. 
His  brain  was  in  a  wild  whirl — the  glitter  of  the  stalactite 
cave  turned  to  a  gyrating  wheel  of  jewel-work,  there  was 
nothing  any  more — no  universe,  no  existence — nothing  but 
love,  love,  love,  beating  strong  hammer-strokes  through  every 


THELMA.  171 

fiber  of  his  frame.  He  glanced  up,  and  saw  that  the  slowly 
retreating  forms  of  his  friends  had  nearly  reached  the  outer 
opening  of  the  cavern.  Once  there,  they  would  look  back 
and — 

"Quick,  Thelma!"  and  his  warm  breath  touched  her  cheek. 
"My  darling!  my  love!  if  you  are  not  angry — kiss  me!  I 
shall  understand!" 

She  hesitated.  To  Philip  that  instant  of  hesitation  seemed 
a  cycle  of  slow  revolving  years.  Timidly  she  lifted  her  head. 
She  was  very  pale,  and  her  breath  came  and  went  quickly. 
He  gazed  at  her  in  speechless  suspense — and  saw  as  in  a  vision 
the  pure  radiance  of  her  face  and  star-like  eyes  shining  more 
and  more  closely  upon  him.  Then  came  a  touch — soft  and 
sweet  as  a  rose-leaf  pressed  against  his  lips — and  for  one  mad 
moment  he  remembered  nothing — he  was  caught  up  like 
Homer's  Paris  in  a  cloud  of  gold,  and  knew  not  which  was 
earth  or  heaven. 

"You  love  me,  Thelma?"  he  murmured  in  a  sort  of  wonder- 
ing rapture,  "I  can  not  believe  it,  sweet!  Tell  me — you  love 
me?" 

She  looked  up.  A  new  unspeakable  glory  flushed  her  face, 
and  her  eyes  glowed  with  the  mute  eloquence  of  awakening 
passion. 

"Love  you?"  she  said  in  a  voice  so  low  and  sweet  that  it 
might  have  been  the  whisper  of  a  passing  fairy.  "Ah,  yes! 
more  than  my  life!" 


CHAPTEE  XIV. 

Sweet  hands,  sweet  hair,  sweet  cheeks,  sweet  eyes,  sweet  mouth; 
Each  singly  wooed  and  won! 

Dante  Rossetti. 

"Halloo,  ho!"  shouted  Guldmar,  vociferously,  peering  back 
into  the  shadows  of  the  cavern  from  whence  the  figures  of  his 
daughter  and  Errington  were  seen  presently  emerging,  "Why, 
what  kept  you  so  long,  my  lad?  We  thought  you  were  close 
behind  us.    Where's  your  torch?" 

"It  went  out,"  replied  Philip,  promptly,  as  he  assisted 
Thelma  with  grave  and  ceremonious  politeness  to  cross  over 


173  THELMA. 

some  rough  stones  at  the  entrance,  "and  we  had  some  trouble 
to  find  our  way." 

"Ye  might  hae  called  to  us  i'  the  way  o'  friendship,"  ob- 
served Macfarlane  somewhat  suspiciously,  "and  we  wad  hae 
lighted  ye  through." 

"Oh,  it  was  no  matter!"  said  Thelma,  with  a  charming 
smile.  "Sir  Philip  seemed  well  to  know  the  way,  and  it  was 
not  so  very  dark!" 

Lorimer  glanced  at  her  and  read  plainly  all  that  was  written 
in  her  happy  face.  His  heart  sunk  a  little;  but,  noticing  that 
the  old  bonde  was  studying  his  daughter  with  a  slight  air  of 
vexation  and  surprise,  he  loyally  determined  to  divert  the 
general  attention  from  her  bright  blushes  and  too  brilliantly 
sparkling  eyes. 

"Well,  here  you  both  are,  at  any  rate,"  he  said,  lightly,  "and 
I  should  strongly  advise  that  we  attempt  no  more  exploration 
of  the  island  of  Soroe  to-day.  Look  at  the  sky;  and  just  now 
there  was  a  clap  of  thunder." 

"Thunder!"  exclaimed  Errington.    "I  never  heard  it!" 

"I  dare  say  not!"  said  Lorimer,  with  a  quiet  smile.  "Still 
we  heard  it  pretty  distinctly,  and  I  think  we'd  better  make  for 
the  yacht." 

"All  right!"  and  Sir  Philip  sprang  gayly  into  the  long-boat 
to  arrange  the  cushions  in  the  stern  for  Thelma.  Never  had 
he  looked  handsomer  or  more  high-spirited,  and  his  elation 
was  noticed  by  all  his  companions. 

"Something  joyous  has  happened  to  our  Phil-eep,"  said 
Duprez,  in  a  half  whisper.    "He  is  in  the  air!" 

"And  something  in  the  ither  way  has  happened  vera  sud- 
denly to  Mr.  Guldmar/'  returned  Macfarlane.  "Th'  auld  man 
is  in  the  dumps." 

The  bonde's  face  in  truth  looked  sad  and  somewhat  stern. 
He  scarcely  spoke  at  all  ^s  he  took  his  place  in  the  boat  beside 
his  daughter — once  he  raised  her  little  hand,  looked  at  it,  and 
kissed  it  fondty. 

They  were  all  soon  on  their  way  back  to  the  "Eulalie,"  over 
a  sea  that  had  grown  rough  and  white  crested  during  their 
visit  to  the  stalactite  cave.  Clouds  had  gathered  thickly  over 
the  sky,  and  though  a  few  shafts  of  sunlight  still  forced  a  pas- 
sage through  them,  the  threatening  darkness  spread  with 
steady  persistency,  especially  to  the  northern  side  of  the  hori- 
zon, where  Storm  hovered  in  the  shape  of  a  black  wing 


THELMA.  173 

odged  with  coppery  crimson.  As  they  reached  the  yacht  a 
silver  glare  of  lightning  sprung  forth  from  beneath  this  sable 
pinion,  and  a  few  large  drops  of  rain  began  to  fall.  Errington 
hurried  Thelma  on  deck  and  down  into  the  saloon.  His 
friends,  with  Guldmar,  followed — and  the  vessel  was  soon 
plunging  through  waves  of  no  small  height  on  her  way  back 
to  the  Alten  Fjord.  A  loud  peal  of  thunder  like  a  salvo  of 
artillery  accompanied  their  departure  from  Soroe,  and  Thelma 
shivered  a  little  as  she  heard  it. 

"You  are  nervous.  Mademoiselle  Guldmar?"  asked  Duprez, 
noticing  her  tremor. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  brightly.  "Nervous?  That  is  to 
be  afraid — I  am  not  afraid  of  a  storm,  but  I  do  not  like  it.  It 
is  a  cruel,  fierce  thing;  and  I  should  have  wished  to-day  to  be 
all  sunshine — all  gladness!"  She  paused,  and  her  eyes  grew 
soft  and  humid. 

"Then  you  have  been  happy  to-day?"  said  Lorimer,  in  a  low 
and  very  gentle  voice. 

She  smiled  up  at  him  from  the  depths  of  the  velvet  lounge 
in  which  Errington  had  placed  her. 

"Happy?  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  been  so  happy  before!" 
She  paused,  and  a  bright  blush  crimsoned  her  cheeks;  then 
seeing  the  piano  open,  she  said,  suddenly:  "Shall  I  sing  to 
you?  or  perhaps  you  are  all  tired,  and  would  rather  rest?" 

"Music  is  rest,"  said  Lorimer,  rather  dreamily,  watching  her 
as  she  rose  from  her  seat — a  tall,  supple,  lithe  figure — and 
moved  toward  the  instrument.  "And  your  voice.  Miss  Guld- 
mar, would  soothe  the  most  weary  soul  that  ever  dwelt  in 
clay." 

She  glanced  round  at  him,  surprised  at  his  sad  tone. 

"Ah,  you  are  very,  very  tired,  Mr.  Lorimer,  I  am  sure!  I 
will  sing  you  a  Norse  cradle-song  to  make  you  go  to  sleep. 
You  will  not  understand  the  words,  though — will  that 
matter?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  answered  Lorimer,  with  a  smile.  "The 
London  girls  sing  in  German,  Italian,  Spanish  and  English. 
Nobody  knows  what  they  are  saying;  they  scarcely  know 
themselves — but  it's  all  right,  and  quite  fashionable." 

Thelma  laughed  gayly.  "How  funny!"  she  exclaimed.  "It 
is  to  amuse  people,  I  suppose!  Well — now  listen."  And, 
playing  a  soft  prelude,  her  rich  contralto  rippled  forth  in  a 
tender,  passionate,  melancholy  melody — so  sweet  and  heart- 
penetrating  that  the  practical  Macfarlane  sat  as  one  in  a  dream 


174  THELMA. 

— Duprez  forgot  to  finish  making  the  cigarette  he  was  daintily 
manipulating  between  his  fingers,  and  Lorimer  had  much  ado 
to  keep  tears  from  his  eyes.  From  one  song  she  glided  to 
another,  and  yet  another;  her  soul  seemed  possessed  by  the 
very  spirit  of  music.  Meanwhile  Errington,  in  obedience  to 
an  imperative  sign  from  old  Guldmar,  left  the  saloon  with 
him.  Once  outside  the  door,  the  bonde  said,  in  a  somewhat 
agitated  voice: 

"I  desire  to  speak  to  you.  Sir  Philip,  alone  and  undisturbed, 
if  such  a  thing  be  possible." 

"By  all  means!"  answered  Philip.  "Come  to  my  'den'  on 
deck.     We  shall  be  quite  solitary  there." 

He  led  the  way,  and  Olaf  Guldmar  followed  him  in  silence. 

It  was  raining  fiercely,  and  the  waves,  green  towers  of 
strength,  broke  every  now  and  then  over  the  sides  of  the  yacht 
with  a  hissing  shower  of  salt  white  spray.  The  thunder  rolled 
along  the  sky  in  angry  reverberating  echoes — frequent  flashes 
of  lightning  leaped  out  like  swords  drawn  from  dark  scabbards 
— yet  toward  the  south  the  sky  was  clearing,  and  arrowy 
beams  of  pale  gold  fell  from  the  hidden  sun  with  a  soothing 
and  soft  luster  on  the  breast  of  the  troubled  water. 

Guldmar  looked  about  him,  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  re- 
freshment. His  eyes  rested  lovingly  on  the  tumbling  billows 
— he  bared  his  white  head  to  the  wind  and  rain. 

"This  is  the  life,  the  blood,  the  heart  of  a  man!"  he  said, 
while  a  sort  of  fierce  delight  shone  in  his  keen  eyes.  "To 
battle  with  the  tempest — to  laugh  at  the  wrath  of  waters — ^to 
set  one's  face  against  the  wild  wind — to  sport  with  the  ele- 
ments as  though  they  were  children  or  serfs — this  is  the  joy 
of  manhood!  A  joy,"  he  added,  slowly,  "that  few  so-called 
men  of  to-day  can  ever  feel." 

Errington  smiled  gravely.  "Perhaps  you  are  right,  sir,"  he 
said;  "but  perhaps,  at  the  same  time,  you  forget  that  life  has 
grown  very  bitter  to  all  of  us  during  the  last  hundred  years 
or  so.  May  be  the  world  is  getting  old  and  used  up,  may  be 
the  fault  is  in  ourselves — but  it  is  certain  that  none  of  us 
nowadays  are  particularly  happy,  except  at  rare  intervals 
when — " 

At  that  moment,  in  a  lull  of  the  storm,  Thelma's  voice 
pealed  upward  from  the  saloon.  She  was  singing  a  French 
song,  and  the  refrain  rang  out  clearly: 

"Ah:  le  doux  son  d'un  baiser  tendre!" 


THELMA.  175 

Errington  paused  abruptly  in  his  speech,  and  turning 
toward  a  little  closed  and  covered  place  on  deck  which  was  half 
cabin,  half  smoking  room,  and  which  he  kept  as  his  own 
private  sanctum,  he  unlocked  it,  saying: 

"Will  you  come  in  here,  sir?  It's  not  very  spacious,  but  I 
think  it's  just  the  place  for  a  chat — especially  a  private  one." 

Guldmar  entered,  but  did  not  sit  down — Errington  shut  the 
door  against  the  rain  and  beating  spray,  and  also  remained 
standing.  After  a  pause,  during  which  the  bonde  seemed 
struggling  with  some  inward  emotion,  he  said,  resolutely: 

"Sir  Philip,  you  are  a  young  man,  and  I  am  an  old  one.  I 
would  not  willingly  offend  you — for  I  like  you — yes."  And 
the  old  man  looked  up  frankly.  "I  like  you  enough  to  respect 
you — which  is  more  than  I  can  say  to  many  men  I  have 
known!  But  I  have  a  weight  on  my  heart  that  must  be  lifted. 
You  and  my  child  have  been  much  together  for  many  days — 
and  I  was  an  old  fool  not  to  have  foreseen  the  influence  your 
companionsliip  might  have  upon  her.  I  may  be  mistaken  in 
the  idea  that  has  taken  hold  of  me — some  wild  words  let  fall 
by  the  poor  boy  Sigurd  this  morning,  when  he  entreated  my 
pardon  for  his  misconduct  of  yesterday,  have  perhaps  misled 
my  judgment — but — by  the  gods!  I  can  not  put  it  into  suit- 
able words!    I — " 

"You  think  I  love  your  daughter?"  said  Sir  Philip,  quietly. 
"You  are  not  mistaken,  sir!  I  love  her  with  my  whole  heart 
and  soul!     I  want  you  to  give  her  to  me  as  my  wife." 

A  change  passed  over  the  old  farmer's  face.  He  grew 
deathly  pale,  and  put  out  one  hand  feebly  as  though  to  seek 
some  support.  Errington  caught  it  in  his  own  and  pressed  it 
hard. 

"Surely  you  are  not  surprised,  sir?"  he  added,  with  eager- 
ness. "How  can  I  help  loving  her!  She  is  the  best  and  love- 
liest girl  I  have  ever  seen!  Believe  me — I  would  make  her 
happy!" 

"And  have  you  thought,  young  man,"  returned  Guldmar, 
slowly,  "that  you  would  make  me  desolate? — or,  thinking  it, 
have  you  cared?" 

There  was  an  infinite  pathos  in  his  voice,  and  Errington  was 
touched  and  silent.  He  found  no  answer  to  this  reproach. 
Guldmar  sat  down,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand. 

"Let  me  think  a  little,"  he  said.  "My  mind  is  confused  a 
bit.    I  was  not  prepared  for — " 


17ft  THELMA. 

He  paused  and  seemed  lost  in  sorrowful  meditation.  By 
and  by  he  looked  up,  and  meeting  Errington's  anxious  gaze, 
he  broke  into  a  short  laugh. 

"Don't  mind  me,  my  lad!"  he  said,  sturdily.  "  'Tis  a  blow, 
you  see!  I  had  not  thought  so  far  as  this.  I'll  tell  you  the 
plain  truth,  and  you  must  forgive  me  for  wronging  you.  I 
know  what  young  blood  is,  all  the  world  over.  A  fair  face 
fires  it — and  impulse  makes  it  gallop  beyond  control.  'Twas 
so  with  me  when  I  was  your  age — though  no  woman,  I  hope, 
was  ever  the  worse  for  my  harmless  love-making.  But 
Thelma  is  different  from  most  women — she  has  a  strange 
nature — moreover,  she  has  a  heart  and  a  memory — if  she  once 
learns  the  meaning  of  love,  she  will  never  unlearn  the  lesson. 
Now,  I  thought,  that  like  most  young  men  of  your  type,  you 
might,  without  meaning  any  actual  evil,  trifle  with  her — play 
with  her  feelings — " 

"I  understand,  sir,"  said  Philip,  coolly,  without  displaying 
any  offense.  "To  put  it  plainly,  in  spite  of  your  liking  for 
me,  you  thought  me  a  snob." 

This  tim.e  the  old  man  laughed  heartily  and  unforcedly. 

"Dear,  dear!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  are  what  is  termed  in 
your  own  land,  a  peppery  customer!  Never  mind — I  like  it! 
Why,  my  lad,  the  men  of  to-day  think  it  fair  sport  to  trifle 
with  a  pretty  woman  now  and  then — " 

"Pardon!"  interrupted  Philip,  curtly.  "I  must  defend  my 
sex.  We  may  occasionally  trifle  with  those  women  who  show 
us  that  they  wish  to  be  trifled  with — but  never  with  those 
who,  like  your  daughter,  win  every  man's  respect  and  rever- 
ence." 

Guldmar  rose  and  grasped  his  hand  fervently. 

"By  all  the  gods,  I  believe  you  are  a  true  gentleman!"  he 
said.  "I  ask  your  pardon  if  I  have  offended  you  by  so  much 
as  a  thought.  But  now" — and  his  face  grew  very  serious — 
"we  must  talk  this  matter  over.  I  will  not  speak  of  the 
suddenness  of  your  love  for  my  child,  because  I  know,  from 
my  own  past  experience,  that  love  is  a  rapid  impulse — a  flame 
ignited  in  a  moment.  Yes,  I  know  that  well!"  He  paused, 
and  his  voice  trembled  a  little,  but  he  soon  steadied  it  and 
went  on — "I  think,  however,  my  lad,  that  you  have  been  a 
little  hasty — for  instance,  have  you  thought  what  your  English 
friends  and  relatives  will  say  to  your  marrying  a  farmer's 
daughter  who — though  she  has  the  blood  of  kings  in  her  veins 


THBLMA.  177 

—is,  nevertheless,  as  this  present  world  would  judge,  beneath 
you  in  social  standing?     I  say,  have  you  thought  of  this?" 

Phihp  smiled  proudly.  "Certainly,  sir,  I  have  not  thought 
of  any  such  trifle  as  the  opinion  of  society — if  that  is  what  you 
mean.  I  have  no  relatives  to  please  or  displease — no  friends 
in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word  except  Lorimer.  I  have  a  long 
list  of  acquaintances  undoubtedly — infinite  bores,  most  of 
them — and  whether  they  approve  or  disapprove  of  my  actions 
is  to  me  a  matter  of  profound  indifference." 

"See  you!"  said  the  bonde,  firmly  and  earnestly.  "It  would 
be  an  ill  day  for  me  if  I  gave  my  little  one  to  a  husband  who 
might — mind!  I  only  say  might — in  the  course  of  years,  re- 
gret having  married  her." 

"Regret!"  cried  Philip,  excitedly,  then  quieting  down,  he 
said,  gently:  "My  good  friend,  I  do  not  think  you  understand 
me.  You  talk  as  if  Thelma  were  beneath  me.  Good  God! 
It  is  I  who  am  infinitely  beneath  her.  I  am  utterly  unworthy 
of  her  in  every  way,  I  assure  you — and  I  tell  you  so  frankly. 
I  have  led  a  useless  life,  and  a  more  or  less  selfish  one.  I  have 
principally  sought  to  amuse  and  interest  myself  all  through  it. 
I've  had  my  vices  too,  and  have  them  still.  Beside  Thelma's 
innocent  white  soul  mine  looks  villainous!  But  I  can  honestly 
say  I  never  knew  what  love  was  till  I  saw  her— and  now— - 
well!  I  would  give  my  life  away  gladly  to  save  her  from  even 
a  small  sorrow." 

"I  believe  you — I  thoroughly  believe  you!"  said  Guldmar. 
"I  see  you  love  the  child.  The  gods  forbid  that  I  should  stand 
in  the  way  of  her  happiness!  I  am  getting  old,  and  'twas  often 
a  sore  point  with  me  to  know  what  would  become  of  my  dar- 
ling when  I  was  gone — for  she  is  fair  to  look  upon,  and  there 
are  many  human  wolves  ready  to  devour  such  lambs.  Still, 
my  lad,  you  must  learn  all.  Do  you  know  what  is  said  of  me 
in  Bosekop?" 

Errington  smiled  and  nodded  in  the  affirmative. 

"You  do?"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  somewhat  surprised. 
"You  know  they  say  I  killed  my  wife — my  wife!  the  creature 
before  whom  my  soul  knelt  in  worship  night  and  day — whose 
bright  head  was  the  sunlight  of  my  life!  Let  me  tell  you  of 
her,  Sir  Philip — 'tis  a  simple  story.  She  was  the  child  of  my 
dearest  friend,  and  many  years  younger  than  myself.  This 
friend  of  mine,  Erik  Erlandsen,  was  the  captain  of  a  stout 
Norwegian   bark,    running    constantly    between    these    wild 

12 


178  THBLMA. 

waters  and  the  coast  of  France.  He  fell  in  love  with  and 
married  a  blue-eyed  beauty  from  the  Sogne  Fjord;  he  carried 
her  secretly  away  from  her  parents,  who  would  not  consent  to 
the  marriage.  She  was  a  timid  creature,  in  spite  of  her 
queenly  ways,  and,  for  fear  of  her  parents,  she  would  never 
land  again  on  the  shores  of  Norway.  She  grew  to  love  France 
— and  Erik  often  left  her  there  in  some  safe  shelter  when  he 
was  bound  on  some  extra  long  and  stormy  passage.  She  took 
to  the  Catholic  creed,  too,  in  France,  and  learned  to  speak  the 
French  tongue,  so  Erik  said,  as  though  it  were  her  own.  At 
the  time  of  the  expected  birth  of  her  child,  her  husband  had 
taken  her  far  inland  to  Aries,  and  there  business  compelled 
him  to  leave  her  for  some  days.  When  he  returned  she  was 
dead! — laid  out  for  burial,  with  flowers  and  tapers  round  her. 
He  fell  prone  on  her  body  insensible — and  not  for  many  hours 
did  the  people  of  the  place  dare  to  tell  him  that  he  was  the 
father  of  a  living  child — a  girl,  with  the  great  blue  eyes  and 
white  skin  of  her  mother.  He  would  scarce  look  at  it — ^but  at 
last,  when  roused  a  bit,  he  carried  the  little  thing  in  his  arms 
to  the  great  convent  at  Aries,  and,  giving  the  nuns  money,  he 
bade  them  take  it  and  bring  it  up  as  they  would,  only  giving 
it  the  name  of  Thelma.  Then  poor  Erlandsen  came  home — 
he  sought  me  out;  he  said:  'Olaf,  I  feel  that  I  am  going  on 
my  last  voyage.  Promise  you  will  see  to  my  child — guard 
her,  if  you  can,  from  an  evil  fate!  For  me  there  is  no  future!' 
I  promised,  and  strove  to  cbeer  him — but  he  spoke  truly — his 
ship  went  down  in  a  storm  on  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  and  all  on 
board  were  lost.  Then  it  was  that  I  commenced  my  joumey- 
ings  to  and  fro,  to  see  the  little  maiden  that  was  growing  up 
in  the  convent  at  Aries.  I  watched  her  for  sixteen  years — and 
when  she  reached  her  seventeenth  birthday,  I  married  her  and 
brought  her  to  Norway." 

"And  she  was  Thelma's  mother?"  said  Errington,  with  in- 
terest. 

"She  was  Thelma's  mother,"  returned  the  bonde,  "and  she 
was  more  beautiful  than  even  Thelma  is  now.  Her  education 
had  been  almost  entirely  French — but,  as  a  child,  she  had 
learned  that  I  generally  spoke  English,  and  as  there  happened 
to  be  an  English  nun  in  the  convent,  she  studied  that  lan- 
guage and  mastered  it  for  the  love  of  me — yes!" — he  repeated 
with  musing  tenderness — "all  for  the  love  of  me — for  she 
loved  me,  Sir  Philip — ay!  as  passionately  as  I  loved  her,  and 


THELMA.  179 

that  is  saying  a  great  deal!  We  lived  a  solitary  happy  life — 
hut  we  did  not  mix  with  our  neighbors — our  creeds  were 
different — our  ways  apart  from  theirs.  We  had  some  time  of 
perfect  happiness  together.  Three  years  passed  before  our 
child  was  born,  and  then" — the  bonde  paused  awhile,  and  again 
continued — "then  my  wife's  health  grew  frail  and  uncertain. 
She  liked  to  be  in  the  fresh  air,  and  was  fond  of  wandering 
about  the  hills  with  her  little  one  in  her  arms.  One  day — 
shall  I  ever  forget  it! — when  Thelma  was  about  two  and  a  half 
years  old,  I  missed  them  both,  and  went  out  to  search  for 
them,  fearing  my  wife  had  lost  her  way,  and  knowing  that  our 
child  could  not  toddle  far  without  fatigue.  I  found  them" — 
the  bonde  shuddered — "but  how?  My  wife  had  slipped  and 
fallen  through  a  chasm  in  the  rocks — high  enough,  indeed,  to 
have  killed  her — she  was  alive,  but  injured  for  life.  She  lay 
there  white  and  motionless — little  Thelma  meanwhile  saCt 
smilingly  on  the  edge  of  the  rock,  assuring  me  that  her  mother 
had  gone  to  sleep  'down  there.'  Well!"  and  Guldmar  brushed 
the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  "to  make  a  long  story 
short,  I  carried  my  darling  home  in  my  arms  a  wreck — she 
lingered  for  ten  years  of  patient  suffering — ten  long  years! 
She  could  only  move  about  on  crutches — the  beauty  of  her 
figure  was  gone — but  the  beauty  of  her  face  grew  more  perfect 
every  day!  Never  again  was  she  seen  on  the  hills — and  so  to 
the  silly  folks  of  Bosekop  she  seemed  to  have  disappeared. 
Indeed,  I  kept  her  very  existence  a  secret — I  could  not  endure 
that  others  should  hear  of  the  destruction  of  all  that  marvelous 
grace  and  queenly  loveliness!  She  lived  long  enough  to  see 
her  daughter  blossom  into  girlhood — then — she  died.  I  could 
not  bear  to  have  her  laid  in  the  damp,  wormy  earth — you 
know  in  our  creed,  earth-burial  is  not  practiced — so  I  laid  her 
tenderly  away  in  a  king's  tomb  of  antiquity — a  tomb  known 
only  to  myself  and  one  who  assisted  me  to  lay  her  in  her  last 
resting-place.  There  she  sleeps  right  royally — and  now  is 
your  mind  relieved,  my  lad?  For  the  reports  of  the  Bosekop 
folk  must  certainly  have  awakened  some  suspicions  in  your 
mind?" 

"Your  story  has  interested  me  deeply,  sir,"  said  Errington; 
"but  I  assure  you  I  never  had  any  suspicions  of  you  at  all.  I 
always  disregard  gossip — it  is  generally  scandalous,  and  seldom 
true.     Besides,  I  took  your  face  on  trust — as  you  took  mine." 

"Then,"  declared  Guldmar,  with  a  smile,  "I  have  nothing 


180  THELMA. 

more  to  say — except" — and  he  stretched  out  both  hands — 
"may  the  great  gods  prosper  your  wooing!  You  offer  a  fairer 
fate  to  Thelma  than  I  had  dreamed  of  for  her — but  I  know 
not  what  the  child  herself  may  say — " 

Philip  interrupted  him.     His  eyes  flashed,  and  he  smiled. 

"She  loves  me!"  he  said,  simply.  Guldmar  looked  at  him, 
laughed  a  little,  and  sighed. 

"She  loves  thee?"  he  said,  relapsing  into  the  thee  and  thou 
he  was  wont  to  use  with  his  daughter.  "Thou  hast  lost  no 
time,  my  lad.     When  didst  thou  find  that  out?" 

"To-day!"  returned  Philip,  vnth.  that  same  triumphant 
smile  playing  about  his  lips.  "She  told  me  so — yet  even  now 
I  can  not  believe  it!" 

"Ah,  well,  thou  mayst  believe  it  truly,"  said  Guldmar,  "for 
Thelma  says  nothing  that  she  does  not  mean!  The  child  has 
never  stooped  to  even  the  smallest  falsehood." 

Errington  seemed  lost  in  a  happy  dream.  Suddenly  he 
roused  himself  and  took  Guldmar  by  the  arm. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "let  us  go  to  her!  She  will  wonder  why 
we  are  so  long  absent.  See!  the  storm  has  cleared — the  sun 
is  shining.     It  is  understood?     You  will  give  her  to  me?" 

"Foolish  lad!"  said  Guldmar,  gently.  "What  have  I  to  do 
with  it?  She  has  given  herself  to  thee!  Love  has  over- 
whelmed both  of  your  hearts,  and  before  the  strong  sweep  of 
such  an  ocean,  what  can  an  old  man's  life  avail?  Nothing — 
less  than  nothing!  Besides,  I  should  be  happy — ^if  I  have  re- 
grets— if  I  feel  the  tooth  of  sorrow  biting  at  my  heart — 'tis 
naught  but  selfishness.  'Tis  my  own  dread  of  parting  with 
her" — his  voice  trembled,  and  his  fine  face  quivered  with  sup- 
pressed emotion. 

Errington  pressed  his  arm.  "Our  house  shall  be  yours,  sir!" 
he  said  eagerly.  "Why  not  leave  this  place  and  come  with 
us?" 

Guldmar  shook  his  head.  "Leave  Norway!"  he  said — 
"leave  the  land  of  my  fathers — turn  my  back  on  these  moun- 
tains and  fjords  and  glaciers?  Never!  No,  no,  my  lad — 
you're  kind-hearted  and  generous  as  becomes  you,  and  I  thank 
you  from  my  heart.  But  'twould  be  impossible!  I  should  be 
like  a  caged  eagle,  breaking  my  wings  against  the  bars  of 
English  conventionalities.  Besides,  young  birds  must  make 
their  nest  without  interference  from  the  old  ones." 

He  stepped  out  on  deck  as  Errington  opened  the  little  cabin 


THELMA.  181 

door,  and  his  features  kindled  with  enthusiasm  as  he  looked 
on  the  stretch  of  dark  mountain  scenery  around  him,  illumined 
by  the  brilliant  beams  of  the  sun  that  shone  out  now  in  full 
splendor,  as  though  in  glorious  defiance  of  the  retreating 
storm,  which  had  rolled  gradually  away  in  clouds  that  were 
tumbling  one  over  the  other  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  north- 
ern horizon  like  vanquished  armies  taking  to  hasty  flight. 

"Could  I  stand  the  orderly  tameness  of  your  green  England, 
think  you,  after  this?"  he  exclaimed  with  a  comprehensive 
gesture  of  his  hand.  "No,  no!  When  death  comes — and 
'twill  not  be  long  coming — let  it  find  me  with  my  face  turned 
to  the  mountains,  and  nothing  but  their  kingly  crests  between 
me  and  the  blessed  sky!  Come,  my  lad!"  and  he  relapsed 
into  his  ordinary  tone.  "If  thou  art  like  me  when  I  was  thy 
age,  every  minute  passed  away  from  thy  love  seems  an  eter- 
nity! Let  us  go  to  her — we  had  best  wait  till  the  decks  are 
dry  before  we  assemble  up  here  again." 

They  descended  at  once  into  the  saloon,  where  they  found 
Thelma  being  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  chess  by  Duprez, 
while  Macfarlane  and  Lorimer  looked  idly  on.  She  glanced 
up  from  the  board  as  her  father  and  Errington  entered,  and 
smiled  at  them  both  with  a  slightly  heightened  color. 

"This  is  such  a  wonderful  game,  father!"  she  said.  "And 
I  am  so  stupid  I  can  not  understand  it!  So  Monsieur  Pierre  is 
trying  to  make  me  remember  the  moves." 

"Nothing  is  easier!"  declared  Duprez.  "I  was  showing 
you  how  the  bishop  goes,  so — crossways,"  and  he  illustrated 
his  lesson.  "He  is  a  dignitary  of  the  Church,  you  perceive. 
Bien!  it  follows  that  he  can  not  go  in  a  straight  line — if  you 
observe  them  well,  you  will  see  that  all  the  religious  gentle- 
men play  at  cross  purposes.  You  are  very  quick.  Mademoi- 
selle Guldmar — you  have  perfectly  comprehended  the  move  of 
the  castle,  and  the  pretty  plunge  of  the  knight.  Now,  as  I 
told  you,  the  queen  can  do  anything — all  the  pieces  shiver  in 
their  shoes  before  her!" 

"Why?"  she  asked,  feeling  a  little  embarrassed,  as  Sir  Philip 
came  and  sat  beside  her,  looking  at  her  with  an  undoubtedly 
composed  air  of  absolute  proprietorship. 

"Why?  Enfin,  the  reason  is  simple!"  answered  Pierre,  "the 
queen  is  a  woman — everything  must  give  way  to  her  wish!" 

"And  the  king?"  she  inquired. 

"Ah!      LepauvreRoi!   He  can  do  very  little — almost  noth- 


182  THELMA. 

ing!  He  can  only  move  one  step  at  a  time,  and  that  with 
much  labor  and  hesitation — he  is  the  wooden  image  of  Louis 
XVI!" 

"Then/'  said  the  girl  quickly,  "the  object  of  the  game  is  to 
protect  a  king  who  is  not  worth  protecting!" 

Duprez  laughed.  "Exactly!  And  thus,  in  this  charming 
game,  you  have  the  history  of  many  nations!  Mademoiselle 
Guldmar  has  put  the  matter  excellently!  Chess  is  for  those 
who  intend  to  form  republics.  All  the  worry  and  calculation 
— all  the  moves  and  pawns,  bishops,  knights,  castles,  and 
queen — all  to  shelter  the  throne  which  is  not  worth  protecting! 
Excellent!  Mademoiselle,  you  are  not  in  favor  of  monarchies!" 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Thelma;  "I  have  never  thought  of 
such  things.  But  kings  should  be  great  men — wise  and  power- 
ful, better  and  braver  than  all  their  subjects,  should  thev 
not?" 

"Undoubtedly!"  remarked  Lorimer,  "but  it's  a  curious 
thing,  they  seldom  are.     Now,  our  queen,  God  bless  her — " 

"Hear,  hear!"  interrupted  Eri'ington,  laughing  good-humor- 
edly.  "I  won't  have  a  word  said  against  the  dear  old  lady, 
Lorimer!  Granted  that  she  hates  London,  and  sees  no  fun  in 
being  stared  at  by  vulgar  crowds,  I  think  she's  quite  right — 
and  I  sympathize  heartily  with  her  liking  for  a  cup  of  tea  in 
peace  and  quiet  with  some  old  Scotch  body  who  doesn't  care 
whether  she's  queen  or  a  washer-woman." 

"I  think,"  said  Macfarlane,  slowly,  "that  royalty  has  its 
duties,  ye  see,  an'  though  I  canna  say  I  object  to  her  majesty's 
homely  way  o'  behavin',  still  there  are  a  few  matters  that  wad 
be  the  better  for  her  pairsonal  attention." 

"Oh,  bother!"  said  Errington,  gayly.  "Look  at  that  victim 
of  the  nation,  the  Prince  of  Wales!  The  poor  fellow  hasn't  a 
moment's  peace  of  his  life — what  with  laying  foundation 
stones,  opening  museums,  inspecting  this  and  visiting  that, 
he  is  like  a  costermonger's  donkey,  that  must  gee-up  or  gee-wo 
as  his  master,  the  people,  bid.  •  If  he  smiles  at  a  woman,  it  is 
instantly  reported  that  he's  in  love  with  her — ^if  he  frankly 
says  he  considers  her  pretty,  there's  no  end  to  the  scandal. 
Poor  royal  wretch!  I  pity  him  from  my  heart!  The  un- 
washed, beer-drinking,  gin-swilling  classes  who  clamor  for 
shortened  hours  of  labor,  and  want  work  to  be  expressly  in- 
vented for  their  benefit,  don't  suffer  a  bit  more  than  Albert 
Edward,  who  is  supposed  to  be  rolling  idle  in  the  very  lap  of 


THBLMA.  183 

luxury,  and  who  can  hardly  call  his  soul  his  own.  Why,  the 
man  can't  eat  a  mutton-chop  without  there  being  a  paragraph 
in  the  papers  headed,  'Diet  of  the  Prince  of  Wales/  His  life 
is  made  an  infinite  bore  to  him,  I'm  positive!" 

Guldmar  looked  thoughtful.  "I  know  little  about  kings  or 
princes,"  he  said,  "but  it  seems  to  me,  from  what  I  do  know, 
that  they  have  but  small  power.  They  are  mere  puppets.  In 
olden  times  they  possessed  supremacy,  but  now — " 

"1  will  tell  you,"  interrupted  Duprez,  excitedly,  "who  it  is 
that  rules  the  people  in  these  times — it  is  the  Pe7i — Madame 
la  Pliwie!  A  little  black,  sharp,  scratching  devil  she  is — em- 
press of  all  nations!  No  crown  but  a  point,  no  royal  robe 
save  ink!  It  is  certain  that  as  long  as  Madame  la  Plume  gam- 
bols freely  over  her  realms  of  paper,  so  long  must  kings  and 
autocrats  shake  in  their  shoes  and  be  uncertain  of  their 
thrones.  Mon  Dieu!  if  I  had  but  the  gift  of  writing,  I  would 
conquer  the  world!" 

"There  are  an  immense  number  of  people  writing  just  now, 
Pierre,"  remarked  Lorimer,  with  a  smile,  "yet  they  don't  do 
much  in  the  conquering  line." 

"Because  they  are  afraid!"  said  Duprez.  "Because  they 
have  not  the  courage  of  their  opinions!  Because  they  dare 
not  tell  the  truth!" 

"Upon  my  hfe  I  believe  you  are  right!"  said  Errington.  "If 
there  were  a  man  bold  enough  to  declare  truths  and  denounce 
lies,  I  should  imagine  it  quite  possible  that  he  might  conquer 
the  world — or,  at  any  rate,  make  it  afraid  of  him." 

"But  is  the  world  so  full  of  lies?"  asked  Thelma,  timidly. 

Lorimer  looked  at  her  gravely.  "I  fear  so.  Miss  Guldmar! 
I  think  it  has  a  tolerable  harvest  of  them  every  year — a  har- 
vest, too,  that  never  fails!  But  I  say,  Phil!  Look  at  the  sun 
shining!  Let  us  go  up  on  deck — we  shall  soon  be  getting  back 
to  the  Alten  Fjord." 

They  all  rose,  threw  on  their  caps,  and  left  the  saloon,  with 
the  exception  of  Errington,  who  lingered  behind,  watching  his 
opportunity,  and  as  Thelma  followed  her  father,  he  called  her 
back  softly: 

"Thelma!" 

She  hesitated,  and  then  turned  toward  him — her  father  saw 
her  movement,  smiled  at  her,  and  nodded  kindly,  as  he  passed 
through  the  saloon  doors  and  disappeared.      With  a  beating 


184  THELMA. 

heart,  she  sprung  quickly  to  her  lover's  side,  and  as  he  caught 
her  in  his  arms,  she  whispered: 

"You  have  told  him?" 

"Your  father?  Yes,  my  darling!"  murmured  Philip,  as  he 
kissed  her  sweet  upturned  lips.  "Be  quite  happy — he  knows 
everything.  Come,  Thelma!  tell  me  again  you  love  me — I 
have  not  heard  you  say  it  properly  yet!" 

She  smiled  dreamily  as  she  leaned  against  his  hreast  and 
looked  up  into  his  eyes. 

"I  can  not  say  it  properly!"  she  said.  "There  is  no  lan- 
guage for  my  heart!  If  I  co"uld  tell  you  all  I  feel,  you  would 
think  it  foolish,  I  am  sure,  because  it  is  all  so  wild  and 
strange" — she  stopped,  and  her  face  grew  pale.  "Oh!"  she 
murmured  with  a  slight  tremor;  "it  is  terrible!" 

"What  is  terrible,  my  sweet  one?"  asked  Errington,  draw- 
ing her  more  closely,  and  holding  her  more  tightly  in  his 
arms. 

She  sighed  deeply.  "To  have  no  more  life  of  my  own!"  she 
answered,  while  her  low  voice  quivered  with  intense  feeling. 
"It  has  all  gone — to  you!  And  yours  has  come  to  me — is  it 
not  strange  and  almost  sad?  How  your  heart  beats,  poor  boy 
—I  can  hear  it  throb,  throb— so  fast— here,  where  I  am  resting 
my  head."  She  looked  up,  and  her  little  white  hand  caressed 
his  cheek.  "Philip,"  she  said  very  softly,  "what  are  you 
thinking  about?  Your  eyes  shine  so  brightly — do  you  know 
you  have  beautiful  eyes?" 

"Have  I?"  he  murmured  abstractedly,  looking  down  on  that 
exquisite,  innocent,  glowing  face,  and  trembhng  with  the 
force  of  the  restrained  passion  that  kindled  through  him.  "I 
don't  know  about  that — yours  seem  to  me  like  two  stars  fallen 
from  heaven!  Oh!  Thelma,  my  darling — God  make  me 
worthy  of  you." 

He  spoke  with  intense  fervor — kissing  her  with  a  tenderness 
in  which  there  was  something  of  reverence  as  well  as  fear. 
The  whole  soul  of  the  man  was  startled  and  roused  to  in- 
expressible devotion  by  the  absolute  simplicity  and  purity  of 
her  nature — the  direct  frankness  with  which  she  had  said  her 
life  was  his — his — and  in  what  way  was  he  fitted  to  be  the 
guardian  and  possessor  of  this  white  lily  from  the  garden  of 
God?  She  was  so  utterly  different  to  all  women  as  he  had 
known  them — as  different  as  a  bird  of  paradise  to  a  common 
house-sparrow.     Meanwhile,  as  these  thoughts  flitted  through 


THELMA.  185 

his  brain,  she  moved  gently  from  his  embrace  and  smiled 
proudly^  yet  sweetly. 

"Worthy  of  me?"  she  said  softly  and  wonderingiy.  "It  is  1 
that  will  pray  to  be  made  worthy  of  you!  You  must  not  put 
it  wTongly,  Philip!" 

He  made  no  answer,  but  looked  at  her  as  she  stood  before 
Mm,  majestic  as  a  young  empress  in  her  straight,  unadorned 
white  gown. 

"Thelma!"  he  said  suddenly,  "do  you  know  how  lovely  you 
are?" 

"Yes!"  she  answered  simpl)^,  "I  know  it,  because  I  am  like 
my  mother.  But  it  is  not  anything  to  be  beautiful — unless 
one  is  loved — and  then  it  is  different!  I  feel  much  more  beau- 
tiful now,  since  you  think  me  pleasant  to  look  at!" 

Philip  laughed  and  caught  her  hand.  "What  a  child  you 
are!"  he  said.  "Now  let  me  see  this  little  finger."  And  he 
loosened  from  his  watch  chain  a  half-hoop  ring  of  brilliants. 
"This  belonged  to  my  mother,  Thelma,"  he  continued,  gently, 
"and  since  her  death  I  have  always  carried  it  about  with  me. 
I  resolved  never  to  part  with  it  except  to — "  He  paused  and 
slipped  it  on  the  third  finger  of  her  left  hand,  where  it  sparkled 
bravely. 

She  gazed  at  it  in  surprise.  "You  part  with  it  now?"  she 
asked,  with  wonder  in  her  accent.     "I  do  not  understand!" 

He  kissed  her.  "No,  I  will  explain  again,  Thelma — and  you 
shall  not  laugh  at  me  as  you  did  the  very  first  time  I  saw  you! 
I  resolved  never  to  part  with  this  ring,  I  say,  except  to — my 
promised  wife.     Now  do  you  understand?" 

She  blushed  deeply,  and  her  eyes  dropped  before  his  ardent 
gaze. 

"I  do  thank  you  very  much,  Philip" — she  faltered  timidly — 
she  was  about  to  say  something  further  when  suddenly  Lori- 
mer  entered  the  saloon.  He  glanced  from  Errington  to 
Thelma,  and  from  Thelma  back  again  to  Errington — and 
smiled.  So  have  certain  brave  soldiers  been  known  to  smile 
in  the  face  of  a  death-shot.  He  advanced  with  his  usual  lan- 
guid step  and  nonchalant  air,  and  removing  his  cap,  bowed 
gravely  and  courteously. 

"Let  me  be  the  first  to  offer  my  congratulations  to  the 
future  Lady  Errington!     Phil,  old  man!     I  wish  you  joy!" 


186  THELMA. 


CHAPTEE  XV. 

Why,  sir,  in  the  universal  game  of  double-dealing,  shall  not  the 
cleverest  tricksters  play  each  other  false  by  hap-hazard,  and  so  be- 
tray their  closest  secrets,  to  their  own  and  their  friends'  infinite 
amazement? —  Congkeve. 

When  Olaf  Giildmar  and  his  daughter  left  the  yacht  that 
evening,  Errington  aceompanied  them,  in  order  to  have  the 
satisfaction  of  escorting  his  beautiful  betrothed  as  far  as  her 
own  door.  They  were  all  three  very  silent — the  bonde  was 
pensive,  Thelma  shy,  and  Errington  himself  was  too  happy  for 
speech.  Arriving  at  the  farm-house,  they  saw  Sigurd  curled 
up  under  the  porch,  playing  idly  with  the  trailing  rose 
branches,  but,  on  hearing  their  footsteps,  he  looked  up,  utter- 
ed a  wild  exclamation,  and  tied.  Guldmar  tapped  his  own  fore- 
head significantly. 

"He  grows  worse  and  worse,  the  poor  lad!"  he  said,  some- 
what sorrowfully.  "And  yet  there  is  a  strange  mingling  of 
foresight  and  wit  with  his  wild  fancies.  Wouldst  thou  believe 
it,  Thelma,  child" — and  here  he  turned  to  his  daughter  and 
encircled  her  waist  with  his  arm — "he  seemed  to  know  how 
matters  were  with  thee  and  Philip  when  I  was  yet  in  the  dark 
concerning  them!" 

This  was  the  first  allusion  her  father  had  made  to  her  en- 
gagement, and  her  head  drooped  with  a  sort  of  sweet  shame. 

"Nay,  now,  why  hide  thy  face?"  went  on  the  old  man 
cheerily.  "Didst  thou  think  I  would  grudge  my  bird  her 
summer-time?  Not  I!  And  little  did  I  hope  for  thee,  my 
darling,  that  thou  wouldst  find  a  shelter  worthy  of  thee  in  this 
wild  world!"  He  paused  a  moment,  looking  tenderly  down 
upon  her,  as  she  nestled  in  mute  afi'ection  against  his  breast — 
then  addressing  himself  to  Errington,  he  went  on: 

"We  have  a  story  in  our  Norse  religion,  my  lad,  of  two 
lovers  who  declared  their  passion  to  each  other  on  one  stormy 
night  in  the  depth  of  winter.  They  were  together  in  a  deso- 
late hut  on  the  mountains,  and  around  them  lay  unbroken 
tracts  of  frozen  snow.     They  were  descended  from  the  gods. 


THELMA.  187 

and  therefore  the  gods  protected  them — and  it  happened  that 
after  they  had  sworn  their  troth,  the  doors  of  the  snow-bound 
hut  flew  suddenly  open,  and  lo!  the  landscape  had  changed — 
the  hills  were  gay  with  grass  and  flowers — the  sky  was  blue 
and  brilliant,  the  birds  sung,  and  everywhere  was  heard  the 
ripple  of  waters  let  loose  from  their  icy  fetters,  and  gambohng 
down  the  rocks  in  the  joyous  sun.  This  was  the  work  of  the 
goddess  Friga — the  first  kiss  exchanged  by  the  lovers  she 
watched  over,  banished  Winter  from  the  land,  and  Spring 
came  instead.  'Tis  a  pretty  story,  and  true  all  the  world  over 
— true  for  all  men  and  women  of  all  creeds!  It  must  be  an 
ice-bound  heart  indeed  that  will  not  warm  to  the  touch  of  love 
— and  mine,  though  aged,  grows  young  again  in  the  Joy  of  my 
children."  He  put  his  daughter  gently  from  him  toward 
Philip,  saying  with  more  gravity,  "Go  to  him,  child — go — with 
thy  old  father's  blessing!  And  take  with  thee  the  three  best 
virtues  of  a  wife — truth,  humihty,  and  obedience.  Good- 
night, my  son!"  and  he  wrung  Errington's  hand  with  fervor. 
"You'll  take  longer  to  say  good-night  to  Thelma,"  and  he 
laughed,  "so  I'll  go  in  and  leave  you  to  it!" 

And  with  a  good-natured  nod,  he  entered  the  house,  whis- 
tling a  tune  as  he  went,  that  they  might  not  think  he  imagined 
himself  lonely  or  neglected — and  the  two  lovers  paced  slowly 
up  and  down  the  garden  path  together,  exchanging  those  first 
confidences  which  to  outsiders  seem  so  eminently  foolish,  but 
which  to  those  immediately  concerned  are  most  wonderful, 
delightfully  strange,  and  enchanting  beyond  all  description. 
Where,  from  a  practical  point  of  view,  is  the  sense  of  such 
questions  as  these — "When  did  you  love  me  first?"  "What 
did  you  feel  when  I  said  so-and-so?"  "Have  you  dreamed  of 
me  often?"  "Will  you  love  me  always,  always,  always?"  and 
so  on  ad  infinitum.  "Kidiculous  rubbish!"  exclaims  the 
would-be  strong-minded  but  secretly  savage  old  maid — and 
the  selfishly  matter-of-fact  but  privately  fidgety  and  lonely 
old  bachelor.  Ah!  but  there  are  those  who  could  tell  you 
that  at  one  time  or  another  of  their  lives  this  "ridiculous  rub- 
bish" seemed  far  more  important  than  the  decline  and  fall  of 
empires — more  necessary  to  existence  than  light  and  air — 
more  fraught  with  hope,  fear,  suspense,  comfort,  despair,  and 
anxiety  than  anything  that  could  be  invented  or  imagined! 
Philip  and  Thelma — man  and  woman  in  the  full  flush  of  youth, 
health,  beauty,  and  happiness — had  just  entered  their  Paradise 


188  THELMA. 

— their  fairy  garden — and  everj'  little  flower  and  leaf  on  the 
way  had  special,  sweet  interest  for  them.  Love's  indefinable 
glories — Love's  proud  possibilities — Love's  long  ecstasies — 
these,  like  so  many  spirit-figures,  seemed  to  smile  and  beckon 
them  on,  on,  on,  through  golden  seas  of  sunlight — through 
flower-filled  fields  of  drowsy  entrancement — through  winding 
ways  of  rose-strewn  and  lily-scented  leafage — on,  on,  with 
eyes  and  hearts  absorbed  in  one  another — unseeing  any  end  to 
the  dream-like  wonders  that,  like  some  heavenly  picture- 
scroll,  unrolled  slowly  and  radiantly  before  them.  And  so 
they  murmur  those  unwise,  tender  things  which  no  wisdom 
in  the  world  has  ever  surpassed,  and  when  Philip  at  last  said 
"Good-night!"  with  more  reluctance  than  Komeo,  and  pressed 
his  parting  kiss  on  his  love's  sweet,  fresh  mouth — the  riddle 
with  which  he  had  puzzled  himself  so  often  was  resolved  at 
last — life  was  worth  living,  worth  cherishing,  worth  ennobling. 
The  reason  of  all  things  seemed  clear  to  him — Love,  and  Love 
only,  supported,  controlled,  and  grandly  completed  the  uni- 
verse! He  accepted  this  answer  to  all  perplexities — his  heart 
expanded  with  a  sense  of  large  content — his  soul  was  satisfied. 

Meanwhile,  during  his  friend's  absence  from  the  yacht, 
Lorimer  took  it  upon  himself  to  break  the  news  to  Duprez  and 
Macfarlane.  These  latter  young  gentlemen  had  had  their 
suspicions  already,  but  they  were  not  quite  prepared  to  hear 
them  so  soon  confirmed.  Lorimer  told  the  matter  in  his  own 
way. 

"I  say,  you  fellows!''  he  remarked,  carelessly,  as  he  sat 
smoking  in  their  company  on  deck,  "you'd  better  look  out! 
If  you  stare  at  Miss  Guldmar  too  much,  you'll  have  Phil  down 
upon  you!" 

"Ha,  ha!"  exclaimed  Duprez,  slyly,  "the  dear  Phil-eep  is  in 
love?" 

"Something  more  than  that,"  said  Lorimer,  looking  absently 
at  the  cigarette  he  held  between  his  fingers.  "He's  an  en- 
gaged man." 

"Engaged!"  cried  Macfarlane,  excitedly.  "Ma  certes!  He 
has  the  deevil's  own  luck!  He's  just  secured  for  himself  the 
grandest  woman  in  the  world!" 

*'Je  lecrois  Men!''  said  Duprez,  gravely;  nodding  his  head 
several  times.  "Phil-eep  is  a  wise  boy!  He  is  the  fortunate 
one!  I  am  not  for  marriage  at  all — no!  not  for  myself — it  is 
to  tie  one's  hands,  to  become  a  prisoner — and  that  would  not 


THELMA.  189 

suit  me;  but  if  I  were  inclined  to  captivity,  1  should  like 
Mademoiselle  Guldmar  for  my  beautiful  jailer.  And  beauti- 
ful she  is,  mon  Dieu! — beyond  all  comparison!" 

Lorimer  was  silent,  so  was  Macfarlane.  After  a  pause,  Du- 
prez  spoke  again. 

"And  do  you  know,  cher  Lorimer,  when  our  Phil-eep  will 
marry?" 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  idea,"  returned  Lorimer.  "I  know 
he's  engaged,  that's  all." 

Suddenly  Macfarlane  broke  into  a  chuckling  laugh. 

"I  say,  Lorimer,"  he  said,  with  his  deep-set,  small  gray  eyes 
sparkling  with  mischief.  "  'Twould  be  grand  fun  to  see  auld 
Dyceworthy's  face  when  he  hears  o't.  By  the  Lord!  He'll 
fall  to  cursin'  an'  swearin'  like  ma  pious  aunt  in  Glasgie,  or 
that  auld  witch  that  cursed  Miss  Thelma  yestreen!" 

"An  eminently  unpleasant  old  woman  she  was!"  said  Lori- 
mer, musingly.     "I  wonder  what  she  meant  by  it!" 

"She  meant,  mon  cher,"  said  Duprez,  airily,  "that  she  knew 
herself  to  be  ugly  and  venerable,  while  mademoiselle  was 
youthful  and  ravishing — it  is  a  sufficient  reason  to  excite 
profanity  in  the  mind  of  a  lady!" 

"Here  comes  Errington!"  said  Macfarlane,  pointing  to  the 
approaching  boat  that  was  coming  swiftly  back  from  the  Guld- 
mars'  pier.     "Lorimer,  are  we  to  congratulate  him?" 

"If  you  like!"  returned  Lorimer.  "I  dare  say  he  won't 
object." 

So  that  as  soon  as  Sir  Philip  set  foot  on  the  yacht,  his  hands 
were  cordially  grasped,  and  his  friends  outvied  each  other  in 
good  wishes  for  his  happiness.  He  thanked  them  simply  and 
with  a  manly  straightforwardness,  entirely  free  from  the  usual 
affected  embarrassment  that  some  modern  young  men  think 
it  seemly  to  adopt  under  similar  circumstances. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  said  frankly,  "I  congratulate  myself — I'm 
more  lucky  than  I  deserve,  I  know!" 

"What  a  sensation  she  will  make  in  London,  Phil!"  said 
Lorimer  suddenly.  "I've  just  thought  of  it!  Good  heavens! 
Lady  Winsleigh  will  cry  for  sheer  spite  and  vexation!" 

PhiHp  laughed.  "I  hope  not,"  he  said.  "I  should  think  it 
would  need  immense  force  to  draw  a  tear  from  her  ladyship's 
cold  bright  eyes.'* 

"She  used  to  like  you  awfully,  Phil!"  said  Lorimer.  "You 
were  a  great  favorite  of  hers." 


190  THELMA. 

"All  men  are  her  favorites  with  the  exception  of  one — ^her 
husband!"  observed  Errington,  gayly.  "Come  along,  let's 
have  some  champagne  to  celebrate  the  day!  We'll  propose 
toasts  and  drink  healths — we've  got  a  fair  excuse  for  Jollity 
this  evening." 

They  all  descended  into  the  saloon,  and  had  a  merry  time 
of  it,  singing  songs  and  telling  good  stories,  Lorimer  being 
the  gayest  of  the  party,  and  it  was  long  past  midnight  when 
they  retired  to  their  cabins,  without  looking  at  the  wonders  of 
perhaps  the  most  gorgeous  sky  that  had  yet  shone  on  their 
travels — a  sky  of  complete  rose-color,  varying  from  the  deep- 
est shade  up  to  the  palest,  in  which  the  sun  glowed  with  a 
subdued  radiance  like  an  enormous  burning  ruby. 

Thelma  saw  it,  standing  vmder  her  house-porch,  where  her 
father  had  joined  her — Sigurd  saw  it — he  had  come  out  from 
some  thicket  where  he  had  been  hiding,  and  he  now  sat,  in  a 
humble,  crouching  posture  at  Thelma's  feet.  All  three  were 
silent,  reverently  watching  the  spreading  splendor  of  the 
heavens.  Once  Guldmar  addressed  his  daughter  in  a  soft 
tone. 

"Thou  art  happy,  my  bird?" 

She  smiled — the  expression  of  her  face  was  almost  divine  in 
its  rapture. 

"Perfectly  happy,  my  father!" 

At  the  sound  of  her  dulcet  voice,  Sigurd  looked  up.  His 
large  blue  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  he  took  her  hand  and  held 
it  in  his  meager  and  wasted  one. 

"Mistress!"  he  said  suddenly,  "do  you  think  I  shall  soon 
die?" 

She  turned  her  pitying  eyes  down  upon  him,  startled  by  the 
vibrating  melancholy  of  his  tone. 

"Thou  wilt  die,  Sigurd,"  answered  Guldmar,  gently,  "when 
the  gods  please — not  one  second  sooner  or  later.  Art  thou 
eager  to  see  Valhalla?" 

Sigurd  nodded  dreamily.  "They  will  understand  me  there!" 
he  murmured.  "And  I  shall  grow  straight  and  strong  and 
brave!  Mistress,  if  you  meet  me  in  Valhalla,  you  will  love 
me!" 

She  stroked  his  wild  fair  locks.  "I  love  you  now,  Sigurd," 
she  said,  tenderly.  "But  perhaps  we  shall  all  love  each  other 
better  in  heaven." 

"Yes,  yes!"  exclaimed  Sigurd,  patting  her  hand  caressingly. 


THELMA.  191 

"When  we  are  all  dead,  dead!  When  our  bodies  crumble 
away  and  turn  to  flowers  and  birds  and  butterflies — and  our 
souls  come  out  like  white  and  red  flames — yes!  then  we  shall 
love  each  other  and  talk  of  such  strange,  strange  things!"  He 
paused  and  laughed  wildly.  Then  his  voice  sunk  again  into 
melancholy  monotony — and  he  added:  "Mistress,  you  are 
killing  poor  Sigurd!" 

Thelma's  face  grew  very  earnest  and  anxious.  "Are  you 
vexed  with  me,  dear?"  she  asked,  soothingly.  "Tell  me  what 
it  is  that  troubles  you." 

Sigurd  met  her  eyes  with  a  look  of  speechless  despair,  and 
shook  his  head. 

"I  can  not  tell  you!"  he  muttered.  "All  my  thoughts  have 
gone  to  drown  themselves  one  by  one  in  the  cold  sea!  My 
heart  was  buried  yesterday,  and  I  saw  it  sealed  down  into  its 
coffin.  There  is  something  of  me  left — something  that  dances 
before  me  like  a  flame — but  it  will  not  rest,  it  does  not  obey 
me.  I  call  it,  but  it  will  not  come!  And  I  am  getting  tired, 
mistress — very,  very  tired!"  His  voice  broke,  and  a  low  sob 
escaped  him — he  hid  his  face  in  the  folds  of  her  dress.  Guld- 
mar  looked  at  the  poor  fellow  compassionately. 

"The  wits  wander  further  and  further  away!"  he  said  to  his 
daughter,  in  a  low  tone.  "  'Tis  a  mind  hke  a  broken  rainbow, 
split  through  by  storm — 'twill  soon  vanish.  Be  patient  with 
him,  child — it  can  not  be  for  long!" 

"No,  not  for  long!"  cried  Sigurd,  raising  his  head  brightly. 
"That  is  true — not  for  long!  Mistress,  will  you  come  to-mor- 
row with  me  and  gather  flowers?  You  used  to  love  to  wander 
with  your  poor  boy  in  the  fields — but  you  have  forgotten — and 
I  can  not  find  any  blossoms  without  you!  They  will  not  show 
themselves  unless  you  come!  Will  you,  dear,  beautiful  mis- 
tress! will  you  come?" 

She  smiled,  pleased  to  see  him  a  little  more  cheerful.  "Yes, 
Sigurd,"  she  said;  "I  will  come.  We  will  go  together  early 
to-morrow  morning  and  gather  all  the  flowers  we  can  find. 
Will  that  make  you  happy?" 

"Yes!"  he  said,  softly  kissing  the  hem  of  her  dress.  "It 
will  make  me  happy — for  the  last  time." 

Then  he  rose  in  an  attitude  of  attention,  as  though  he  had 
been  called  by  some  one  at  a  distance — and  with  a  grave,  pre- 
occupied air,  he  moved  away,  walking  on  tiptoe  as  though  he 


192  THELMA. 

feared  to  interrupt  the  sound  of  some  soft  invisible  music. 
Guldmar  sighed  as  he  watched  him  disappear. 

"May  the  gods  make  us  thankful  for  a  clear  brain  when  we 
have  it!"  he  said,  devoutly;  then  turning  to  his  daughter,  he 
bade  her  good-night,  and  laid  his  hands  on  her  golden  head  in 
silent  but  fervent  blessing.  "Child,"  he  said,  tremulously, 
"in  the  new  joys  that  await  thee,  never  forget  how  thy  father 
loves  thee!" 

Then,  not  trusting  himself  to  say  more,  he  strode  into  the 
house  and  betook  himself  to  slumber.  Thelma  followed  his 
example,  and  the  old  farm-house  was  soon  wrapped  in  the 
peace  and  stillness  of  the  strange  night — a  night  of  glittering 
sunshine.  Sigurd  alone  was  wakeful — he  lay  at  the  foot  of 
one  of  the  tallest  pine-trees,  and  stared  persistently  at  the 
radiant  sky  through  the  net-work  of  dark  branches.  Now  and 
then  he  smiled  as  though  he  saw  some  beatific  vision — some- 
times he  plucked  fitfully  at  the  soft  long  moss  on  which  he  had 
made  his  couch,  and  sometimes  he  broke  into  a  low,  crooning 
song.  God  alone  knew  the  broken  ideas,  the  dim  fancies,  the 
half-born  desires,  that  glimmered  like  pale  ghosts  in  the  desert 
of  his  brain — God  alone,  in  the  great  Hereafter,  could  solve 
the  problem  of  his  sorrows  and  throw  light  on  his  soul's 
darkness. 

It  was  past  six  in  the  morning  when  he  arose,  and  smoothing 
back  his  tangled  locks,  went  to  Thelma's  window  and  sat 
down  beneath  it,  in  mute  expectancy.  He  had  not  long  to 
wait — at  the  expiration  of  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  the  little 
lattice  was  thrown  wide  open,  and  the  girl's  face^  fresh  as  a 
rose,  framed  in  a  shower  of  amber  locks,  smiled  down  upon 
him. 

"I  am  coming,  Sigurd!"  she  cried  softly  and  joyously. 
"How  lovely  the  morning  is!  Stay  for  me  there!  I  shall  not 
be  long." 

And  she  disappeared,  leaving  her  window  open.  Sigurd 
heard  her  singing  little  scraps  of  song  to  herself,  as  she  moved 
about  in  the  interior  of  her  room.  He  listened,  as  though  his 
soul  were  drawn  out  of  him  by  her  voice — but  presently  the 
rich  notes  ceased,  and  there  was  a  sudden  silence.  Sigurd 
knew  or  guessed  the  reason  of  that  hush — Thelma  was  at  her 
prayers.  Instinctively  the  poor  forlorn  lad  folded  his  wasted 
hands — most  piteously  and  most  imploringly  he  raised  his 
bewildered  eyes  to  the  blue  and  golden  glory  of  the  sky.     His 


THELMA.  193 

conception  of  God  was  indefinable;  his  dreams  of  heaven, 
chaotic  minglings  of  fairy-land  with  Valhalla — but  he  some- 
how felt  that  wherever  Thelma's  holy  aspirations  turned, 
there  the  angels  must  be  listening. 

Presently  she  came  out  of  the  house,  looking  radiant  as  the 
morning  itself — her  luxuriant  hair  was  thrown  back  over  her 
shoulders  and  fell  loosely  about  her  in  thick  curls,  simply 
confined  by  a  knot  of  blue  ribbon.  She  carried  a  large  osier 
basket,  capacious,  and  gracefully  shaped. 

"Kow,  Sigurd,"  she  called,  sweetly,  "  I  am  ready!  Where 
shall  we  go?" 

Sigurd  hastened  to  her  side,  happy  and  smiling. 

"Across  there,"  he  said,  pointing  toward  the  direction  of 
Bosekop.  "There  is  a  stream  under  the  trees  that  laughs  to 
itself  all  day — you  know  it,  mistress?  And  the  poppies  are  in 
the  field  as  you  go — and  by  the  banks  there  are  the  hearts- 
ease flowers — ^we  can  not  have  too  many  of  them!  Shall  we 
go?" 

"Wherever  you  like,  dear,"  answered  Thelma,  tenderly, 
looking  down  from  her  stately  height  on  the  poor  stunted 
creature  at  her  side,  who  held  her  dress  as  though  he  were  a 
child  clinging  to  her  as  his  sole  means  of  guidance.  "All  the 
land  is  pleasant  to-day." 

They  left  the  farm  and  its  boundaries.  A  few  men  were  at 
work  on  one  of  Guldmar's  fields,  and  these  looked  up — half  in 
awe,  half  in  fear — as  Thelma  and  her  fantastic  servitor  passed 
along. 

"  'Tis  a  fine  wench!"  said  one  man,  resting  on  his  spade,  and 
following  with  his  eyes  the  erect,  graceful  figure  of  his  em- 
ployer's daughter. 

"May  be,  may  be!"  said  another,  gruffly;  "but  a  fine  wench  is 
a  snare  of  the  devil!  Do  ye  mind  what  Lovisa  Elsland  told 
us?" 

"Ay,  ay,"  answered  the  first  speaker,  "Lovisa  knows — 
Lovisa  is  the  wisest  woman  we  have  in  these  parts — that's 
true!     The  girl's  a  witch,  for  sure!" 

And  they  resumed  their  work  in  gloomy  silence.  Not  one 
of  them  would  have  willingly  labored  on  Olaf  Guldmar's  land 
had  not  the  wages  he  offered  them  been  above  the  usual  rate  of 
hire — and  times  were  bad  in  Norway.  But  otherwise,  the 
superstitious  fear  of  him  was  so  great  that  his  fields  might 
have  gone  untilled  and  his  crops  ungathered — however,  as 
13 


194  THELMA. 

matters  stood,  none  of  them  could  deny  that  he  was  a  good 
paymaster,  and  just  in  his  dealings  with  those  whom  he  em- 
ployed. 

Thelma  and  Sigurd  took  their  way  in  silence  across  a  per- 
fumed stretch  of  meadow-land — the  one  naturally  fertile  spot 
in  that  somewhat  barren  district.  Plenty  of  flowers  blossomed 
at  their  feet,  but  they  did  not  pause  to  gather  these,  for  Sigurd 
was  anxious  to  get  to  the  stream  where  the  purple  pansies 
grew.  They  soon  reached  it — it  was  a  silvery  clear  ribbon  of 
water  that  unrolled  itself  in  bright  folds  through  green  trans- 
parent tunnels  of  fern  and  waving  grass — leaping  now  and 
then  with  a  swift  dash  over  a  smooth  block  of  stone  or  jagged 
rock — but  for  the  most  part  gliding  softly,  with  a  happy,  self- 
satisfied  murmur,  as  though  it  were  some  drowsy  spirit 
dreaming  joyous  dreams.  Here  nodded  the  grave,  purple- 
leaved  pansies — legendary  consolers  of  the  heart — their  little, 
quaint,  expressive  physiognomies  turned  in  every  direction 
up  to  the  sky,  as  though  absorbing  the  sunlight — down  to  the 
ground,  with  an  almost  severe  air  of  meditation,  or  curled 
sideways  on  their  stems  in  a  sort  of  sly  reflectiveness. 

Sigurd  was  among  them  at  once — they  were  his  friends — ^his 
playmates,  his  favorites — and  he  gathered  them  quickly  yet 
tenderly,  murmuring  as  he  did  so:  "Yes,  you  must  all  die; 
but  death  does  not  hurt;  no!  life  hurts,  but  not  death!  See! 
as  I  pluck  you,  you  all  grow  wings  and  fly  away — away  to 
other  meadows,  and  bloom  again."  He  paused,  and  a  puzzled 
look  came  into  his  eyes.  He  turned  toward  Thelma,  who  had 
seated  herself  on  a  little  knoll  just  above  the  stream:  "Tell 
me,  mistress,"  he  said,  "do  the  flowers  go  to  heaven?" 

She  smiled.  "I  think  so,  dear  Sigurd,"  she  said;  "I  hope 
so!    I  am  almost  sure  they  do." 

Sigurd  nodded  with  an  air  of  satisfaction. 

"That  is  right,"  he  observed.  "It  would  never  do  to  leave 
them  behind,  you  know!  They  would  be  missed,  and  we 
should  have  to  come  down  again  and  fetch  them — "  A  crack- 
ling among  the  branches  of  some  trees  startled  him — ^he  looked 
round,  and  uttered  a  peculiar  cry  like  the  cry  of  a  wild  animal, 
and  exclaimed:  "Spies,  spies!  Ha!  ha!  secret,  wicked  faces 
that  are  afraid  to  show  themselves!  Come  out!  Mistress, 
mistress!  make  them  come  out!" 

Thelma  rose,  surprised  at  his  gesticulations,  and  came 
toward  him;  to  her  utter  astonishment  she  found  herself  con- 


THELMA.  195 

fronted  by  old  Lovisa  Elsland  and  the  Eev.  Mr.  Dyceworthy's 
servant,  Ulrika.  On  both  women's  faces  there  was  a  curious 
expression  of  mingled  fear,  triumph,  and  malevolence.  Lo- 
visa was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"At  last!"  she  croaked,  in  a  sort  of  slow,  monotonous  tone. 
"At  last,  Thelma  Guldmar,  the  Lord  has  delivered  you  into 
my  hands!" 

Thelma  drew  Sigurd  close  to  her,  and  slipped  one  arm  round 
him. 

"Poor  soul!"  she  said,  softly,  with  sweet,  pitying  eyes  fixed 
fearlessly  on  the  old  hag's  withered,  evil  visage.  "You  must  be 
tired,  wandering  about  on  the  hills  as  you  do!  If  you  are  her 
friend,"  she  added,  addressing  Ulrika,  "why  do  you  not  make 
her  rest  at  home  and  keep  warm?     She  is  so  old  and  feeble!" 

"Feeble!"  shrieked  Lovisa;  "feeble!"  And  she  seemed  chok- 
ing with  passion.  "If  I  had  my  fingers  at  your  throat,  you 
should  then  see  if  I  am  feeble!  I — "  Ulrika  pulled  her  by  the 
arm,  and  whispered  something  which  had  the  effect  of  calming 
her  a  little.     "Well,"  she  said,  "you  speak  then!     I  can  wait!" 

Ulrika  cleared  her  husky  voice,  and  fixed  her  dull  eyes  on 
the  girl's  radiant  countenance. 

"You  must  go  away,"  she  said  coldly  and  briefly.  "You 
and  your  father  and  this  creature,"  and  she  pointed  contempt- 
uously to  the  staring  Sigurd.  "Do  you  understand?  You 
must  leave  the  Alten  Fjord!  The  people  are  tired  of  you — 
tired  of  bad  harvests,  ill-luck,  sickness,  and  continued  poverty. 
You  are  the  cause  of  all  our  miseries — and  we  have  resolved 
you  shall  not  stay  among  us.  Go  quickly — take  the  blight 
and  pestilence  of  your  presence  elsewhere!  Go!  or  if  you 
will  not—" 

"We  shall  burn,  burn,  burn,  and  utterly  destroy!"  inter- 
rupted Lovisa,  with  a  sort  of  eldritch  shriek.  "The  strong 
pine  rafters  of  Olaf  Guldmar's  dwelling  shall  be  kindled  into 
flame  to  light  the  hills  with  crimson,  far  and  near!  N"ot  a 
plank  shall  be  spared! — not  a  vestige  of  his  pride  be  left — " 

"Stop!"  said  Thelma,  quietly.  "What  do  you  mean?  You 
must  both  be  very  mad  or  very  wicked!  You  want  us  to  go 
away — you  threaten  to  set  fire  to  our  home — why?  We  have 
done  you  no  harm.  Tell  me,  poor  soul!"  and  she  turned  with 
queenly  forbearance  to  Lovisa,  "is  it  for  Britta's  sake  that  you 
would  burn  the  house  she  lives  in?    That  is  not  wise!    You 


196  THELMA. 

cursed  me  the  other  day — and  why?    What  have  I  done  that 
3'ou  should  hate  me?" 

The  old  woman  regarded  her  with  steadfast,  cruel  eyes. 

"You  are  your  mother's  child!"  she  said.  "I  hated  her — I 
hate  you!  You  are  a  witch! — the  village  knows  it — Mr.  Dyce- 
worthy  knows  it!  Mr.  Dyceworthy  says  we  shall  be  justified 
in  the  Lord's  sight  for  wreaking  evil  upon  you!  Evil,  evil  be 
on  those  of  evil  deeds!" 

"Then  shall  the  evil  fall  on  Mr.  Dyceworthy,"  said  the  girl, 
calmly.  "He  is  wicked  in  himself — and  doubly  wicked  to 
encourage  you  in  wickedness.  He  is  ignorant  and  false — why 
do  you  believe  in  such  a  man?" 

"He  is  a  saint — a  saint!"  cried  Lovisa,  wildly.  "And  shall 
the  daughter  of  Satan  withstand  his  power?"  And  she  clapped 
her  hands  in  a  sort  of  fierce  ecstasy. 

Thelma  glanced  at  her  pityingly  and  smiled.  "A  saint! 
Poor  thing,  how  little  you  know  him!"  she  said.  "And  it  is 
a  pity  you  should  hate  me,  for  I  have  done  you  no  wrong. 
I  would  do  good  to  all  if  I  knew  how.  Tell  me,  can  I  comfort 
you,  or  make  your  life  more  cheerful  ?  It  must  be  hard  to  be 
so  old  and  all  alone!" 

"Your  death  would  comfort  me!"  returned  Lovisa,  grimly. 
"Why  do  you  keep  Britta  from  me?" 

"I  do  not  keep  her,"  Thelma  answered.  "She  stays  with 
me  because  she  is  happy.  Why  do  you  grudge  her  her  happi- 
ness? And  as  for  burning  my  father's  house,  surely  you  would 
not  do  so  wicked  and  foolish  a  thing! — but  still,  you  must  do 
as  you  choose,  for  it  is  not  possible  that  we  shall  leave  the 
Alten  Fjord  to  please  you." 

Here  Ulrika  started  forward  angrily.  "You  defy  us!"  she 
cried.  "You  will  not  go?"  And  in  her  excitement  she  seized 
Thelma's  arm  roughly. 

This  action  was  too  much  for  Sigurd;  he  considered  it  an 
attack  on  the  person  of  his  beloved  mistress,  and  he  resented 
it  at  once  in  his  own  fashion.  Throwing  himself  on  Ulrika 
with  sudden  ferocity,  he  pushed  and  beat  her  back  as  though 
he  were  a  wolf-hound  struggling  with  refractory  prey;  and 
though  the  ancient  Lovisa  rushed  to  the  rescue,  and  Thelma 
imploringly  called  upon  her  zealous  champion  to  desist,  all 
remonstrances  were  unavailing,  till  Sigurd  had  reduced  his 
enemy  to  the  most  abject  and  whimpering  terror. 

"A  demon — a  demon!"  she  sobbed  and  moaned,  as  the  val- 


THELMA.  197 

iant  dwarf  at  last  released  her  from  his  clutches;  and,  tossing 
his  long,  fair  locks  over  his  misshapen  shoulders,  laughed 
loudly  and  triumphantly  with  delight  at  his  victory.  "Lovisa! 
Lovisa  Elsland!  this  is  your  doing;  you  brought  this  upon 
me!  I  may  die  now,  and  you  will  not  care!  Oh,  I^ord,  Lord, 
have  mercy — " 

Suddenly  she  stopped;  her  eyes  dilated — her  face  grew  pale 
with  the  sickening  pallor  of  fear.  Slowly  she  raised  her  hand 
and  pointed  to  Sigurd — his  fantastic  dress  had  become  dis- 
ordered in  the  affray,  and  his  jacket  was  torn  open,  and  on 
his  chest  a  long  red  scar  in  the  shape  of  a  cross  was  distinctly 
visible.  "That  scar!"  she  muttered.  "How  did  he  get  that 
scar?" 

Lovisa  stared  at  her  in  impatient  derision.  Thelma  was 
too  surprised  to  answer  immediately,  and  Sigurd  took  it  upon 
himself  to  furnish  what  he  considered  a  crushing  reply. 

"Odin's  mark!"  he  said,  patting  the  scar  with  much  elation. 
"No  wonder  you  are  afraid  of  it!  Everybody  knows  it — birds, 
flowers,  trees  and  stars!    Even  you — you  are  afraid!" 

And  he  laughed  again,  and  snapped  his  fingers  in  her  face. 
The  woman  shuddered  violently.  Step  by  step  she  drew  to 
the  wondering  Thelma,  and  spoke  in  low  and  trembling  ac- 
cents, without  a  trace  of  her  former  anger. 

"They  say  you  are  wicked,"  she  said,  slowly,  "and  that  the 
devil  has  your  soul  already,  before  you  are  dead!  But  I  am 
not  afraid  of  you.  No;  I  will  forgive  you,  and  pray  for  you, 
if  you  will  tell  me — "  She  paused,  and  then  continued,  as 
with  a  strong  effort.    "Yes — tell  me  who  is  this  Sigurd?" 

"Sigurd  is  a  foundling,"  answered  Thelma,  simply.  "He 
was  floating  about  in  the  fjord  in  a  basket,  and  my  father 
saved  him.  He  was  quite  a  baby.  He  had  this  scar  on  his 
chest  then.     He  has  lived  with  us  ever  since." 

Ulrika  looked  at  her  searchingly — then  bent  her  head — 
whether  in  gratitude  or  despair  it  was  difficult  to  say. 

"Lovisa  Elsland,"  she  said,  monotonously,  "I  am  going 
home.  I  can  not  help  you  any  longer!  I  am  tired — ill," 
Here  she  suddenly  broke  down,  and,  throwing  up  her  arms 
with  a  wild  gesture,  she  cried:  "Oh,  God,  God!  oh,  God!" 
and  burst  into  a  stormy  passion  of  sobs  and  tears. 

Thelma,  touched  by  her  utter  misery,  would  have  offered 
consolation,  but  Lovisa  repelled  her  with  a  fierce  gesture. 

"Go!"  said  the  old  woman,  harshly.    "You  have  cast  your 


198  THELMA. 

spells  upon  her — ^I  am  witness  of  your  work!  And  shall  you 
escape  just  judgment?  No;  not  wliile  there  is  a  God  in 
heaven,  and  I,  Lovisa  Elsland,  live  to  perform  His  bidding! 
Go — white  devil  that  you  are! — go  and  carry  misfortune  upon 
misfortune  to  your  fine  gentleman-lover!  Ah!"  and  she 
chuckled  maliciously  as  the  girl  recoiled  from  her,  her  proud 
face  growing  suddenly  paler,  "have  I  touched  you  there?  Lie 
in  his  breast,  and  it  shall  be  as  though  a  serpent  stung  him 
— kiss  his  lips,  and  your  touch  shall  be  poison — live  in 
doubt,  and  die  in  misery!  Go!  and  may  all  evil  follow 
you!" 

She  raised  her  staff  and  waved  it  majestically,  as  though 
she  drew  a  circle  in  the  air — Thelma  smiled  pityingly,  but 
deigned  no  answer  to  her  wild  ravings. 

"Come,  Sigurd!"  she  said,  simply,  "let  us  return  home.  It 
is  growing  late — father  will  wonder  where  we  are." 

"Yes,  yes,"  agreed  Sigurd,  seizing  the  basket  full  of  the 
pansies  he  had  plucked.  "The  sunshine  is  slipping  away,  and 
we  can  not  live  with  shadows!  These  are  not  real  women, 
mistress;  they  are  dreams — black  dreams.  I  have  often  fought 
with  dreams,  and  I  know  how  to  make  them  afraid!  See  how 
the  one  weeps  because  she  knows  me — and  the  other  is  just 
going  to  fall  into  a  grave.  I  can  hear  the  clods  thrown  on  her 
head — thump — thump!  It  does  not  take  long  to  bury  a 
dream.    Come,  mistress,  let  us  follow  the  sunshine!" 

And,  taking  the  hand  she  extended  toward  him,  he  turned 
away,  looking  back  once,  however,  to  call  out  loudly: 

"Good-bye,  bad  dreams!" 

As  they  disappeared  behind  the  trees,  Lovisa  turned  angrily 
to  the  still  sobbing  Ulrika. 

"What  is  this  folly?"  she  exclaimed,  striking  her  staff 
fiercely  into  the  ground.    "Art  mad  or  bewitched?" 

Ulrika  looked  up — her  plain  face  swollen  and  stained  with 
weeping. 

"Oh,  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  me!  Oh,  Lord,  forgive  me!" 
she  moaned.    "I  did  not  know  it — ^how  could  I  know?" 

Lovisa  grew  so  impatient  that  she  seized  her  by  the  shoul- 
der and  shook  her  violently. 

"Know  what?"  she  cried;  *Tmow  what?" 

"Sigurd  is  my  son!"  said  Ulrika,  with  a  sort  of  solemn 
resignation — then,  with  a  sudden  gesture,  she  threw  her  hand 
above  her  head,  crying:    "My  son,  my  son!      The  child  I 


THELMA.  199 

thousjht  I  had  killed!     The  Lord  be  praised  I  did  not  murder 
him!" 

Lovisa  Elsland  seemed  stupefied  with  surprise.  "Is  this 
the  truth?"  she  asked  at  last,  slowly  and  incredulously. 

"The  truth,  the  truth!"  cried  Ulrika,  passionately.  "It  is 
always  the  truth  that  comes  to  light!  He  is  my  child,  I  tell 
you!  I  gave  him  that  scar!"  She  paused,  shuddering,  and 
continued  in  a  lower  tone,  "I  tried  to  kill  him  with  a  knife, 
but  when  the  blood  flowed,  it  sickened  me,  and  I  could  not! 
He  was  an  infant  abortion — the  evil  fruit  of  an  evil  deed — and 
I  threw  him  out  to  the  waves — as  I  told  you  long  ago.  You 
have  had  good  use  of  my  confession,  Lovisa  Elsland;  you  have 
held  me  in  your  power  by  means  of  my  secret,  but  now — " 

The  old  woman  interrupted  her  with  a  low  laugh  of  con- 
tempt and  malice. 

"As  the  parents  are,  so  are  the  children!"  she  said,  scorn- 
fully. "Your  lover  must  have  been  a  fine  man,  Ulrika,  if  the 
son  is  like  his  father!" 

Ulrika  glared  at  her  vengefully,  then  drew  herself  up  with 
an  air  of  defiance. 

"I  care  nothing  for  your  taunts,  Lovisa  Elsland!"  she  said. 
"You  can  do  me  no  harm!  All  is  over  between  us!  I  will 
help  in  no  mischief  against  the  Guldmars.  Whatever  their 
faults,  they  saved — my  child!" 

"Is  that  so  great  a  blessing?"  asked  Lovisa,  ironically. 

"It  makes  your  threat  useless,"  answered  Ulrika.  "You 
can  not  call  me  murderess  again!" 

"Coward  and  fool!"  shrieked  Lovisa.  "Was  it  your  intent 
that  the  child  should  live?  Were  you  not  glad  to  think  it 
dead?  And  can  not  I  spread  the  story  of  your  infamy  through 
all  the  villages  where  you  are  known?  Is  not  the  wretched 
boy  himself  a  living  witness  of  the  attempt  you  made  to  kill 
him?  Does  not  that  scar  speak  against  you?  Would  not  Olaf 
Gruldmar  relate  the  story  of  the  child's  rescue  to  any  one  that 
asked  him?  Would  you  like  all  Bosekop  to  know  of  your 
intrigue  with  an  escaped  criminal,  who  was  afterward  caught 
and  hung?  The  virtuous  Ulrika — the  zealous  servant  of  the 
Gospel — the  pious,  pra)dng  Ulrika!"  and  the  old  woman  trem- 
bled with  rage  and  excitement.  "Out  of  my  power?  Never, 
never!  As  long  as  there  is  breath  in  my  body  I  will  hold  you 
down!    Not  a  murderess,  you  say — " 

"No,"  said  Ulrika,  very  calmly,  with  a  keen  look,  "I  am  not 
— but  you  are!" 


200  THELMA. 


CHAPTEE   XVI. 

II  n'y  a  personne  qui  ait  eu  autant  k  souffrir  k  votre  sujet  que 
moi  depuis  ma  naissance!  aussi  je  vous  supplie  k  deux  genoux  et 
au  nom  de  Dieu,  d'avoir  pitie  de  moi!— Old  Breton  Ballad. 

In  a  few  more  days  Thelma's  engagement  to  Sir  Philip 
Briice-Errington  was  the  talk  of  the  neighborhood.  The  news 
spread  gradually,  having  been,  in  the  first  place,  started  by 
Britta,  whose  triumph  in  her  mistress'  happiness  was  charm- 
ing to  witness.  It  reached  the  astonished  and  reluctant  ears 
of  the  Eev.  Mr.  Dyceworthy,  whose  rage  was  so  great  that  it 
destroyed  his  appetite  for  twenty-four  hours.  But  the  general 
impression  in  the  neighborhood,  where  superstition  main- 
tained so  strong  a  hold  on  the  primitive  an^  prejudiced  minds 
of  the  people,  was  that  t*lie  reckless  young  Englishman  would 
rue  the  day  on  which  he  wedded  "the  white  witch  of  the  Alten 
Fjord." 

Guldmar  was  regarded  with  more  suspicion  than  ever  as 
having  used  some  secret  and  diabolical  influence  to  promote 
the  match;  and  the  whole  party  were,  as  it  seemed,  tabooed, 
and  looked  upon  as  given  up  to  the  most  unholy  practices. 

Needless  to  say,  the  opinions  of  the  ^^llagers  had  no  effect 
whatever  on  the  good  spirits  of  those  who  were  thus  unfavor- 
ably criticised,  and  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find  a 
merrier  group  than  that  assembled  one  fine  morning  in  front 
of  Guldmar's  house,  all  equipped  from  top  to  toe  for  some 
evidently  unusually  lengthy  and  arduous  mountain  excursion. 
Each  man  carried  a  long,  stout  stick,  portable  flask,  knapsack, 
and  rug — the  latter  two  articles  strapped  together  and  slung 
across  the  shoulder — and  they  all  presented  an  eminently  pic- 
turesque appearance,  particularly  Sigurd,  who  stood  a  little 
distance  from  the  others,  leaning  on  his  tall  staff  and  gazing  at 
Thelma  with  an  air  of  peculiar  pensiveness  and  abstraction. 

She  was  at  that  moment  busied  in  adjusting  Errington's 
knapsack  more  comfortably,  her  fair,  laughing  face  turned  up 
to  his,  and  her  bright  eyes  alight  with  love  and  tender  solici- 
tude. 


THELMA.  201 

"I've  a  good  mind  not  to  go  at  all,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear. 
"I'll  come  back  and  stay  with  you  all  day." 

"You  foolish  boy!"  she  answered,  merrily.  "You  would 
miss  seeing  the  grand  fall — all  for  what!  To  sit  with  me  and 
watch  me  spinning,  and  you  would  grow  so  very  sleepy! 
Now,  if  I  were  a  man,  I  would  go  with  you." 

"I'm  very  glad  you're  not  a  man!"  said  Errington,  pressing 
the  little  hand  that  had  just  buckled  his  shoulder-strap. 
"Though  I  wish  you  were  going  with  us.  But  I  say,  Thelma, 
darling,  won't  you  be  lonely?" 

She  laughed  gayly.  "Lonely?  I!  Why,  Britta  is  with  me 
— besides,  I  am  never  lonely  now."  She  uttered  the  last  word 
softly,  with  a  shy,  upward  glance.  "I  have  so  much  to  think 
about^ — "  She  paused  and  drew  her  hand  away  from  her 
lover's  close  clasp.  "Ah,"  she  resumed,  with  a  mischievous 
smile,  "you  are  a  conceited  boy!  You  want  to  be  missed! 
You  wish  me  to  say  that  I  shall  feel  most  miserable  all  the 
time  you  are  away!     If  I  do,  I  shall  not  tell  you!" 

"Thelma,  child!"  called  Olaf  Guldmar,  at  this  juncture, 
"keep  the  gates  bolted  and  doors  barred  while  we  are  absent. 
Eemember,  thou  and  Britta  must  pass  the  night  alone  here — 
we  can  not  be  at  home  till  late  in  the  evening  of  to-morrow. 
Let  no  one  inside  the  garden,  and  deny  thyself  to  all  comers. 
Dost  thou  hear?" 

"Yes,  father,"  she  responded,  meekly. 

"And  let  Britta  keep  good  guard  that  her  crazy  hag  of  a 
grandam  come  not  hither  to  disturb  or  fright  thee  with  her 
croaking — for  thou  hast  not  even  Sigurd  to  protect  thee!" 

"Not  even  Sigurd!"  said  that  personage,  with  a  meditative 
smile.    "No,  mistress;  not  even  poor  Sigurd!" 

"One  of  us  might  remain  behind,"  suggested  Lorimer,  with 
a  side-look  at  his  friend. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  exclaimed  Thelma,  anxiously.  "It  would 
vex  me  so  much!  Britta  and  I  have  often  been  alone  before. 
We  are  quite  safe,  are  we  not,  father?" 

"Safe  enough!"  said  the  old  man,  wdth  a  laugh.  "I  know  of 
no  one  save  Lovisa  Elsland  who  has  the  courage  to  face  thee, 
child!  Still,  pretty  witch  as  thou  art,  'twill  not  harm  thee  to 
put  the  iron  bar  across  the  house  door,  and  to  lock  fast  the 
outer  gate  when  we  have  gone.  This  done,  I  have  no  fear  of 
thy  safety.    Now,"  and  he  kissed  his  daughter  heartily,  "now, 


202  THEL.MA. 

lads,  'tis  time  we  were  on  the  march!  Sigurd,  my  boy, 
lead  on!" 

"Wait!"  cried  Sigurd,  springing  to  Thelma's  side.  "I  must 
say  good-bye!"  And  he  caught  the  girl's  hand  and  kissed  it 
— then  plucking  a  rose,  he  left  it  between  her  fingers.  "That 
will  remind  you  of  Sigurd,  mistress!  Think  of  him  once  to- 
day!— once  again  when  the  midnight  glory  shines.  Good-bye, 
mistress!  that  is  what  the  dead  say!    Good-bye!" 

And  with  a  passionate  gesture  of  farewell  he  ran  and  placed 
himself  at  the  head  of  the  little  group  that  waited  for  him, 
saying  exultingly: 

"Now  follow  me!  Sigurd  knows  the  way!  Sigurd  is  the 
friend  of  all  the  wild  water-falls!  Up  the  hills — across  the 
leaping  stream — through  the  sparkling  foam!"  And  he  began 
chanting  to  himself  a  sort  of  wild  mountain  song. 

Macfarlane  looked  at  him  dubiously.  "Are  ye  sure?"  he 
said  to  Guldmar.  "Are  ye  sure  that  wee  chap  kens  whaur  he's 
gaun?  He'll  no  lead  us  into  a  ditch  an'  leave  us  there,  mis- 
takin'itforthefall?" 

Guldmar  laughed  heartily.  "Never  fear!  Sigurd's  the  best 
guide  you  can  have,  in  spite  of  his  fancies.  He  knows  all  the 
safest  and  surest  paths;  and  Njedegorze  is  no  easy  place  to 
reach,  I  can  tell  you!" 

"Pardon!    How  is  it  called?"  asked  Duprez,  eagerly. 

"Njedegorze." 

The  Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  give  it  up!"  he 
said,  smilingly.  "Mademoiselle  Guldmar,  if  anything  happens 
to  me  at  tliis  cascade  with  the  name  unpronounceable,  you 
will  again  be  my  doctor,  will  you  not?" 

Thelma  laughed  as  she  shook  hands  with  him.  "Nothing 
will  happen,"  she  rejoined;  "unless,  indeed,  you  catch  cold 
by  sleeping  in  a  hut  all  night.  Father,  you  must  see  that  they 
do  not  catch  cold!" 

The  bonde  nodded,  and  motioned  the  party  forward,  Sigurd 
leading  the  way.  Errington,  however,  lingered  behind  on 
pretense  of  having  forgotten  something,  and,  drawing  his  be- 
trothed to  his  arms,  kissed  her  fondly. 

"Take  care  of  yourself,  darling!"  he  murmured — and  then 
hurrying  away  he  rejoined  his  friends,  who  had  discreetly  re- 
frained from  looking  back,  and  therefore  had  not  seen  the 
lovers  embrace. 

Sigurd,  however,  had  seen  it,  and  the  sight  apparently  gave 


THELMA.  202 

fresh  impetus  to  his  movements,  for  he  sprung  up  the  adjacent 
hill  with  so  much  velocity  that  those  who  followed  had  some 
dilhculty  to  keep  up  with  him — and  it  was  not  till  they  were 
out  of  sight  of  the  farm-house  that  he  resumed  anything  like 
a  reasonable  pace. 

As  soon  as  they  had  disappeared,  Thelma  turned  into  the 
house  and  seated  herself  at  her  spinning-wheel.  Britta  soon 
entered  the  room,  carrying  the  same  graceful  implement  of 
industry,  and  the  two  maidens  sat  together  for  some  time  in  a 
silence  unbroken  save  by  the  low  melodious  whirring  of  the 
two  wheels,  and  the  mellow  complaints  of  the  strutting  doves 
on  the  window-sill. 

^'Froken  Thelma!"  said  Britta  at  last,  timidly. 

"Yes,  Britta?"    And  her  mistress  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"Of  what  use  is  it  for  you  to  spin  now?"  queried  the  little 
handmaid.  "You  will  be  a  great  lady,  and  great  ladies  do  not 
work  at  all!" 

Thelma's  wheel  revolved  more  and  more  slowly,  till  at  last 
it  stopped  altogether. 

"Do  they  not?"  she  said,  half  inquiringly  and  musingly.  "I 
think  you  must  be  wrong,  Britta.  It  is  impossible  that  there 
should  be  people  who  are  always  idle.  I  do  not  know  what 
great  ladies  are  like." 

"I  do!"  And  Britta  nodded  her  curly  head  sagaciously. 
"There  was  a  girl  from  Hammerfest  who  went  to  Christiania 
to  seek  serAace — she  was  handy  at  her  needle,  and  a  fine 
spinner,  and  a  great  lady  took  her  right  away  from  Norway  to 
London.  And  the  lady  bought  her  spinning-wheel  for  a  curi- 
osity, she  said — and  put  it  in  the  corner  of  a  large  parlor,  and 
used  to  show  it  to  her  friends,  and  they  would  all  laugh  and 
say:  'How  pretty!'  And  Jansena — that  was  the  girl — never 
spun  again — she  wore  linen  that  she  got  from  the  shops — 
and  it  was  always  falling  into  holes,  and  Jansena  was  always 
mending,  mending,  and  it  was  no  good!" 

Thelma  laughed.  "Then  it  is  better  to  spin,  after  all, 
Britta— is  it  not?" 

Britta  looked  dubious.  "I  do  not  know,"  she  answered; 
"but  I  am  sure  great  ladies  do  not  spin.  Because,  as  I  said  to 
you,  Froken,  this  Jansena's  mistress  was  a  great  lady,  and  she 
never  did  anything — no!  nothing  at  all — but  she  put  on  won- 
derful dresses,  and  sat  in  her  room,  or  was  driven  about  in  a 
carriage.    And  that  is  what  you  will  do  also,  Froken!" 


204  THELMA. 

"Oh,  no,  Britta/'  said  Thelma,  decisively,  "I  could  not  be 
so  idle.  Is  it  not  fortunate  I  have  so  much  linen  ready? 
I  have  quite  enough  for  marriage/' 

The  little  maid  looked  wistful.  "Yes,  dear  Froken,"  she 
murmured,  hesitatingly;  "but  I  was  thinking  if  it  is  right  for 
you  to  wear  what  you  have  spun.  Because,  you  see,  Jansena's 
mistress  had  wonderful  things  all  trimmed  with  lace — and 
they  would  all  come  back  from  the  washing  torn  and  hanging 
in  threads,  and  Jansena  had  to  mend  those  as  well  as  her  own 
clothes.  You  see,  they  do  not  last  at  all — and  they  cost  a  large 
sum  of  money;  but  it  is  proper  for  great  ladies^  to  wear 
them.'' 

"I  am  not  sure  of  that,  Britta,"  said  Thelma,  still  musingly. 
*'But  still,  it  may  be — my  bridal  things  may  please  Philip.  If 
you  know  anything  about  it,  you  must  tell  me  what  is  right." 

Britta  was  in  a  little  perplexity.  She  had  gathered  some 
idea  from  her  friend  Jansena  concerning  life  in  London — she 
had  even  a  misty  notion  of  what  was  meant  by  a  "trousseau" 
with  all  its  dainty,  expensive,  and  often  useless  fripperies; 
but  she  did  not  know  how  to  explain  herself  to  her  young  mis- 
tress, whose  simple,  almost  severe  tastes  would,  she  instinct- 
ively felt,  recoil  from  anything  like  ostentation  in  dress,  so 
she  was  discreetly  silent. 

"You  know,  Britta,"  continued  Thelma,  gently,  "I  shall  be 
Philip's  wife,  and  I  must  not  vex  him  in  any  little  thing. 
But  I  do  not  quite  understand.  I  have  always  dressed  in  the 
same  way — and  he  has  never  said  that  he  thought  me  wrongly 
clothed." 

And  she  looked  down  with  quite  a  touching  pathos  at  her 
straight,  white  woolen  gown,  and  smoothed  its  folds  doubt- 
fully. The  impulsive  Britta  sprung  to  her  side  and  kissed 
her  with  girlish  and  unaffected  enthusiasm. 

"My  dear,  my  dear!  You  are  more  lovely  and  sweet  than 
anybody  in  the  world!"  she  cried.  "And  I  am  sure  Sir  Philip 
thinks  so,  too!" 

A  beautiful  roseate  flush  suffused  Thelma's  cheeks,  and  she 
smiled. 

"Yes,  I  know  he  does!"  she  replied,  softly.  "And  after  all 
it  does  not  matter  what  one  wears." 

Britta  was  meditating — she  looked  lovingly  at  her  mistress' 
rippling  wealth  of  hair. 

"Diamonds!"  she  murmured  to  herself  in  a  sort  of  satisfied 


THBLMA.  205 

soliloquy.  "Diamonds,  like  those  you  have  on  your  finger, 
Froken — diamonds  all  scattered  among  your  curls  like  dew- 
drops!  And  white  satin,  all  shining,  sliining! — people  would 
take  you  for  an  angel!" 

Thelma  laughed  merrily.  "Britta,  Britta!  You  are  talking 
such  nonsense!  Nobody  dresses  so  grandly  except  queens  in 
fairy  tales." 

"Do  they  not?"  and  the  wise  Britta  looked  more  profound 
than  ever.    "Well,  we  shall  see,  dear  Froken — we  shall  see!" 

"We?"  queried  Thelma  with  surprised  emphasis. 

Her  little  maid  blushed  vividly,  and  looked  down  demurely, 
twisting  and  untwisting  the  string  of  her  apron. 

"Yes,  Froken,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone.  "I  have  asked  Sir 
Philip  to  let  me  go  with  you  when  you  leave  ISTorway." 

"Britta!"  Thelma's  astonishment  was  too  great  for  more 
than  this  exclamation. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  don't  be  angry  with  me!"  implored  Britta, 
with  sparkling  eyes,  rosy  cheeks,  and  excited  tongue  all  plead- 
ing eloquently  together,  "I  should  die  here  without  you!  I 
told  the  bonde  so;  I  did,  indeed!  And  then  I  went  to  Sir 
Philip — he  is  such  a  grand  gentleman — so  proud  and  yet  so 
kind — and  I  asked  him  to  let  me  still  he  your  servant.  I  said 
I  knew  all  great  ladies  had  a  maid,  and  if  I  was  not  clever 
enough  I  could  learn,  and — and" — here  Britta  began  to  sob — 
"I  said  I  did  not  want  any  wages — only  to  live  in  a  little  cor- 
ner of  the  same  house  where  you  were — to  sew  for  you,  and  see 
you,  and  hear  your  voice  sometimes — "  Here  the  poor  little 
maiden  broke  down  altogether,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  apron, 
crying  bitterly. 

The  tears  were  in  Thelma's  eyes,  too,  and  she  hastened  to 
put  her  arm  around  Britta's  waist,  and  tried  to  soothe  her  by 
every  loving  word  she  could  think  of. 

"Hush,  Britta,  dear!  you  must  not  cry!"  she  said,  tenderly. 
"What  did  PhiKp  say?" 

"He  said,"  jerked  out  Britta,  convulsively,  "that  I  was  a 
g-good  little  g-girl,  and  that  he  was  g-glad  I  wanted  to  g-go!" 
Here  her  two  sparkling  wet  eyes  peeped  out  of  the  apron 
inquiringly,  and  seeing  nothing  but  the  sweetest  affection  on 
Thelma's  attentive  face,  she  went  on  more  steadily.  "He 
p-pinched  my  cheek,  and  he  laughed — and  he  said  he  would 
rather  have  me  for  your  maid  than  anybody — there!" 

And  this  last  exclamation  was  uttered  with  so  much  defiance 


206  THELMA. 

that  she  dashed  away  the  apron  altogether,  and  stood  erect  in 
self-congratulatory  glory,  with  a  particularly  red  little  nose 
and  very  trembling  lips.  Thelma  smiled,  and  caressed  the 
tumbled  brown  curls, 

"I  am  very  glad,  Britta!"  she  said,  earnestly.  "Nothing 
could  have  pleased  me  more!  I  must  thank  Philip.  But  it  is 
of  father  I  am  thinking — what  will  father  and  Sigurd  do  ?" 

"Oh,  that  is  all  settled,  Froken,"  said  Britta,  recovering 
herself  rapidly  from  her  outburst.  "The  bonde  means  to  go 
for  one  of  his  long  voyages  in  the  'Valkyrie' — it  is  time  she 
was  used  again,  I'm  sure — and  Sigurd  wall  go  with  him.  It 
will  do  them  both  good — and  the  tongues  of  Bosekop  can  wag- 
gle as  much  as  they  please,  none  of  us  will  be  here  to  mind 
them!" 

"And  you  will  escape  your  grandmother!"  said  Thelma, 
amusedly,  as  she  once  more  set  her  spinning-wheel  in  motion. 

Britta  laughed  delightedly.  "Yes!  she  will  not  find  her 
way  to  England  without  some  trouble!"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh, 
how  happy  I  shall  be!  And  you" — she  looked  pleadingly  at 
her  mistress — "you  do  not  dislike  me  for  your  servant?" 

"Dislike!"  and  Thelma  gave  her  a  glance  of  mingled  re- 
proach and  tenderness.  "You  know  how  fond  I  am  of  you, 
Britta!  It  will  be  like  having  a  little  bit  of  my  old  home 
always  with  me." 

Silently  Britta  kissed  her  hand,  and  then  resumed  her  work. 
The  monotonous  murmur  of  the  two  wheels  recommenced — 
this  time  pleasantly  accompanied  by  the  rippling  chatter  of 
the  two  girls  who,  after  the  fashion  of  girls  all  the  world  over, 
indulged  in  many  speculations  as  to  the  new  and  strange  life 
that  lay  before  them. 

Their  ideas  were  of  the  most  primitive  character — Britta 
had  never  been  out  of  Norway,  and  Thelma's  experiences, 
apart  from  her  home  life,  extended  merely  to  the  narrow  and 
restricted  bounds  of  simple  and  severe  convent  discipline, 
where  she  had  been  taught  that  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  the 
world  were  foolish  and  transient  shows,  and  that  nothing 
could  please  God  more  than  purity  and  rectitude  of  soul.  Her 
character  was  formed,  and  set  upon  a  firm  basis — firmer  than 
she  herself  was  conscious  of.  The  nuns  who  had  been  en- 
trusted with  her  education  had  fulfilled  their  task  with  more 
than  their  customary  zeal — they  were  interested  in  the  beauti- 
ful Norwegian  child  for  the  sake  of  her  mother,  who  had  also 


THELMA.  207 

been  their  charge.  One  venerable  nun,  in  particular,  had 
bestowed  a  deep  and  lasting  benefit  on  her,  for,  seeing  her 
extraordinary  beauty,  and  forestalling  the  dangers  and  temp- 
tations into  which  the  possession  of  such  exceptional  charms 
might  lead  her,  she  adopted  a  wise  preventive  course  that 
cased  her  as  it  were  in  armor,  proof  against  all  the  assailments 
of  flattery.  She  told  the  girl  quite  plainly  that  she  was  beau- 
tiful— but  at  the  same  time  made  her  aware  that  beauty  was 
common — that  she  shared  it  alike  with  birds,  flowers,  trees, 
and  all  the  wonderful  objects  of  nature — moreover,  that  it  was 
nothing  to  boast  of,  being  so  perishable. 

"Suppose  a  rose  foolish  enough  to  boast  of  its  pretty  leaves," 
said  the  gentle  religieuse  on  one  occasion.  "They  all  fall  to 
the  ground  in  a  short  time,  and  become  decayed  and  yellow — 
it  is  only  the  fragrance,  or  the  soul,  of  the  rose  that  lasts." 
Such  precepts,  that  might  have  been  wasted  on  a  less  sensi- 
tive and  thoughtful  nature,  sunk  deeply  into  Thelma's  mind — 
she  accepted  them  not  only  in  theory,  but  in  practice,  and  the 
result  was  that  she  accepted  her  beauty  as  she  accepted  her 
health — as  a  mere  natural  occurrence — no  more.  She  was 
taught  that  the  three  principal  virtues  of  a  woman  were  chas- 
tity, hujnility  and  obedience — these  were  the  laws  of  God, 
fixed  and  immutable,  which  no  one  dared  break  without  com- 
mitting grievous  and  unpardonable  sin.  So  she  thought,  and 
according  to  her  thoughts  she  lived.  What  a  strange  world, 
then,  lay  before  her  in  the  contemi)latcd  change  that  was 
about  to  take  place  in  the  even  tenor  of  her  existence!  A 
world  of  intrigue  and  folly — a  world  of  infidelity  and  false- 
hood!— how  would  she  meet  it?  It  was  a  question  she  never 
asked  herself — she  thought  London  a  sort  of  magnified  Chris- 
tiania,  or  at  best,  the  Provencal  town  of  Aries  on  a  larger 
scale.  She  had  heard  her  father  speak  of  it,  but  only  in  a 
vague  way,  and  she  had  been  able  to  form  no  just  idea  even  to 
herself  of  the  enormous  metropolis  crowded  to  excess  with  its 
glad  and  soiTOwful,  busy  and  idle,  rich  and  poor  millions. 
England  itself  floated  before  her  fancy  as  a  green,  fertile, 
embowered  island  where  Shakespeare  had  lived — and  it  de- 
lighted her  to  know  that  her  future  home,  Errington  Manor, 
was  situated  in  Warwickshire,  Shakespeare's  county.  Of  the 
pociety  that  awaited  her,  she  had  no  notion — she  was  pre- 
pared to  "keep  house"  for  her  husband  in  a  very  simple  way — 
to  spin  his  household  linen,  to  spare  him  all  trouble  and  ex- 


208  THELMA. 

pense,  and  to  devote  herself  body  aud  soul  to  his  service.  As 
may  be  well  imagined,  the  pictures  she  drew  of  her  future 
married  hfe,  as  she  sat  and  spun  with  Britta  on  that  peaceful 
afternoon,  were  widely  different  to  the  destined  reality  that 
every  day  approached  her  more  nearly. 

Meanwhile,  while  the  two  girls  were  at  home  and  undis- 
turbed in  the  quiet  farm-house,  the  mountaineering  party, 
headed  by  Sigurd,  were  well  on  their  way  toward  the  great  fall 
of  Njedegorze.  They  had  made  a  toilsome  ascent  of  the  hills 
by  the  side  of  the  Alten  Eiver — ^they  had  climbed  over  craggy 
bowlders  and  slippery  rocks,  sometimes  wading  knee-deep  in 
the  stream,  or  pausing  to  rest  and  watch  the  salmon  leap  and 
turn  gHttering  somersaults  in  the  air  close  above  the  diamond- 
clear  water — and  they  had  beguiled  their  fatigue  with  songs 
and  laughter  and  the  telling  of  fantastic  legends  and  stories, 
in  which  Sigurd  had  shone  at  his  best — ^indeed,  this  unhappy 
being  was  in  a  singularly  clear  and  rational  frame  of  mind, 
disposed,  too,  to  be  agreeable  even  toward  Errington.  Lori- 
mer,  who  for  reasons  of  his  own  had  kept  a  close  watch  on 
Sigurd  ever  since  his  friend's  engagement  to  Thelma,  was 
surprised  and  gratified  at  this  change  in  his  former  behavior 
and  encouraged  him  in  it,  while  Errington  himself  responded 
to  the  dwarf's  proffered  friendship,  and  walked  beside  him, 
chattering  cheerfully  during  the  most  part  of  the  excursion  to 
the  fall.  It  was  a  long  and  exceedingly  difficult  journey — and 
in  some  parts  dangerous — but  Sigurd  proved  himself  worthy 
of  the  commendations  bestowed  on  him  by  the  bonde,  and 
guided  them  by  the  easiest  and  most  secure  paths,  till  at  last, 
about  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  they  heard  the  rush  and 
roar  of  the  rapids  below  the  fall,  and  with  half  an  hour's  more 
exertion,  came  in  sight  of  them,  though  not  as  yet  of  the  fall 
itself.  Yet  the  rapids  were  grand  enough  to  merit  attention 
— and  the  whole  party  stopped  to  gaze  on  the  whirling  wonder 
of  waters  that,  hissing  furiously,  circled  round  and  round 
giddily  in  wheels  of  white  foam,  and  then,  as  though  enraged, 
leaped  high  over  obstructing  stones  and  branches,  and  rushed 
onward  and  downward  to  the  smoother  length  of  the  river. 

The  noise  was  deafening — they  could  not  hear  each  other 
speak  unless  by  shouting  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  and  even 
then  the  sounds  were  rendered  almost  indistinct  by  the  riotous 
uproar.  Sigurd,  however,  who  knew  all  the  ins  and  outs  of 
the  place,  sprung  lightly  on  a  jutting  crag,  and,  putting  both 


THBLMA,  209 

hands  to  his  mouth,  uttered  a  peculiar,  shrill,  and  far-reaching 
cry.  Clear  above  the  turmoil  of  the  restless  waters,  that  cry 
was  echoed  back  eight  distinct  times  from  the  surrounding 
rocks  and  hills.    Sigurd  laughed  triumphantly. 

"You  see!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  resumed  his  leadership  of 
the  party,  "they  all  know  me!  They  are  obliged  to  answer 
me  when  I  call — they  dare  not  disobey!"  And  his  blue  eyes 
flashed  with  that  sudden  wild  fire  that  generally  foretold  some 
access  of  his  particular  mania. 

Errington  saw  this  and  said  soothingly:  "Of  course  not, 
Sigurd!  No  one  would  dream  of  disobeying  you!  See  how 
we  follow  you  to-day — we  all  do  exactly  what  you  tell  us." 

"We  are  sheep,  Sigurd,"  added  Lorimer,  lazily;  "and  you 
are  the  shepherd." 

Sigurd  looked  from  one  to  the  other  half  doubtingly,  half 
cunningly.     He  smiled. 

"Yes!"  he  said.  "You  will  follow  me,  will  you  not?  Up 
to  the  very  top  of  the  fall?" 

"By  all  means!"  answered  Sir  Philip,  gayly.  "Anywhere 
you  choose  to  go!" 

Sigurd  seemed  satisfied,  and  lapsing  into  the  calm,  com- 
posed manner  which  had  distinguished  him  all  day,  he  led  the 
way  as  before,  and  they  resumed  their  march,  this  time  in 
silence,  for  conversation  was  well-nigh  impossible.  The 
nearer  they  came  to  the  yet  invisible  fall,  the  more  thunder- 
ous grew  the  din — it  was  as  though  they  approached  some 
vast  battle-field  where  opposing  armies  were  in  full  action, 
with  all  the  tumult  of  cannonade  and  musketry.  The  ascent 
grew  steeper  and  more  difficult — at  times  the  high  barriers  of 
rocks  seemed  almost  impassable — often  they  were  compelled 
to  climb  over  confused  heaps  of  huge  stones  through  which 
the  eddying  water  pushed  its  way  with  speed  and  fury — ^but 
Sigurd's  precision  was  never  at  fault — he  leaped  crag  after 
crag  swiftly  and  skillfully,  always  lighting  on  a  sure  foothold, 
and  guiding  the  others  to  do  the  same.  At  last,  at  a  shar]i 
turn  of  one  of  these  rocky  eminences,  they  perceived  an  enor- 
mous cloud  of  white  vapor  rising  up  hke  smoke  from  the  earth 
and  twisting  itself  as  it  rose  in  swaying,  serpentine  folds,  as 
though  some  giant  spirit-hand  were  shaking  it  to  and  fro  like  a 
long  flowing  veil  in  the  air.  Sigurd  paused  and  pointed  for- 
ward. 

"NJedegorze!"  he  cried. 

14 


210  THELMA. 

They  all  pressed  on  with  some  excitement.  The  ground 
vibrated  beneath  their  feet  with  the  shock  of  the  falling  tor- 
rent, and  the  clash  and  roar  of  the  disputing  waters  rolled 
in  their  ears  like  the  grand,  sustained  bass  of  some  huge 
cathedral  organ.  Almost  blinded  by  the  spray  that  dashed  its 
disdainful  drops  in  their  faces,  deafened  by  the  majestic,  loud, 
and  ceaseless  eloquence  that  poured  its  persuasive  force  into 
the  splitting  hearts  of  the  rock  around  them — breathless  with 
climbing,  and  well-nigh  tired  out,  they  struggled  on,  and 
broke  into  one  unanimous  shout  of  delight  and  triumph  when 
they  at  last  reached  the  small  hut  that  had  been  erected  for 
the  convenience  of  travelers  who  might  choose  that  way  to 
journey  to  the  Alton  Fjord — and  stood  face  to  face  with  the 
magnificent  cascade,  one  of  the  grandest  in  Norway.  What  a 
sublime  spectacle  it  was! — that  tempest  of  water  sweeping 
sheer  down  the  towering  rocks  in  one  straight,  broad,  un- 
broken sheet  of  foam!  A  myriad  rainbows  flashed  in  the 
torrent  and  vanished,  to  reappear  again  instantly  with  re- 
doubled luster — while  the  glory  of  the  evening  sunlight  glit- 
tering on  one  side  of  the  fall  made  it  gleam  like  a  sparkling 
shower  of  molten  gold. 

"Njedegorze!"  cried  Sigurd,  again,  giving  a  singularly  musi- 
cal pronunciation  to  the  apparently  uncouth  name.  "Come! 
still  a  little  further — to  the  top  of  the  fall!" 

Olaf  Guldmar,  however,  paid  no  attention  to  this  invitation. 
He  was  already  beginning  to  busy  himself  with  preparations 
for  passing  the  night  comfortably  in  the  hut  before  mentioned. 
Stout  old  Norseman  as  he  was,  there  were  limits  to  his  endur- 
ance, and  the  arduous  exertions  of  the  long  day  had  brought 
fatigue  to  him  as  well  as  to  the  rest  of  the  party. 

Macfarlane  was  particularly  exhausted.  His  frequent  pulls 
at  the  whisky  flask  had  been  of  little  or  no  avail  as  a  support 
to  his  aching  limbs,  and,  now  he  had  reached  his  destination, 
he  threw  himself  full  length  on  the  turf  in  front  of  the  hut 
and  groaned  most  dismally. 

Lorimer  surveyed  him  amusedly,  and  stood  beside  him,  the 
very  picture  of  a  cool  young  Briton  whom  nothing  could  pos- 
sibly discompose. 

"Done  up — eh,  Sandy?"  he  inquired. 

"Done  up!"  growled  Macfarlane.  "D'ye  think  I'm  a  Norse- 
man or  a  jumping  Frenchy?"  This  with  a  look  of  positive 
indignation  at  the  lively  Duprez,  who,  if  tired,  was  probably 


THELMA.  211 

too  vain  to  admit  it,  for  he  was  strutting  about,  giving  vent  to 
his  genuine  admiration  of  the  scene  before  him  with  the 
utmost  freshness  and  enthusiasm.  "I'm  just  a  plain  Scotch- 
man, an'  no  such  a  fule  at  chmbin'  either!  Why,  man,  I've 
been  up  Goatfell  in  Arran,  an'  Ben  Lomond  an'  Ben  Nevis — 
there's  a  mountain  for  ye,  if  ye  hke !  But  a  brae  hke  this,  wi' 
a'  the  stanes  lyin'  helter-skelter,  an'  crags  that  ye  can  barely 
hold  on  to — and  a  mad  chap  guidin'  ye  on  at  the  speed  o'  a 
leapin'  goat — I  tell  ye,  I  havena  been  used  to  't."  Here  he 
drew  out  his  flask  and  took  another  extensive  pull  at  it.  Then 
he  added,  suddenly:  "Just  look  at  Errington!  He'll  be  in  a 
fair  way  to  break  his  neck  if  he  follows  yon  wee  crazy  loon 
any  further." 

At  these  words  Lorimer  turned  sharply  round,  and  perceived 
his  friend  following  Sigurd  step  by  step  up  a  narrow  footing 
in  the  steep  ascent  of  some  rough,  irregular  crags  that  ran 
out  and  formed  a  narrow  ledge,  ending  in  a  sharp  point  jutting 
directly  over  the  full  fury  of  the  water-fall.  He  watched  the 
two  climbing  figures  for  an  instant  without  any  anxiety — then 
he  suddenly  remembered  that  Philip  had  promised  to  go  with 
Sigurd  "to  the  top  of  the  fall."  Acting  on  a  rapid  impulse 
which  he  did  not  stop  to  explain  to  himself,  Lorimer  at  once 
started  off  after  them — but  the  ascent  was  difficult;  they  were 
some  distance  ahead,  and  though  he  shouted  vociferously,  the 
roar  of  the  cascade  rendered  his  voice  inaudible.  Gaining 
on  them,  however,  by  slow  degrees,  he  was  startled  when 
all  at  once  they  disappeared  at  the  summit — and,  breathless 
with  his  rapid  climb,  he  paused,  bewildered.  By  and  by  he 
saw  Sigurd  creeping  cautiously  out  along  the  rocky  shelf  that 
overhung  the  tumbling  torrent — his  gaze  grew  riveted  with  a 
sort  of  deadly  fascination  on  the  spot. 

"Good  God!"  he  muttered  under  his  breath.  "Surely  Phil 
will  not  follow  him  there!" 

He  watched  with  strained  eyes — and  a  smothered  cry 
escaped  him  as  Errington's  tall  figure,  erect  and  bold,  appeared 
on  that  narrow  and  dangerous  platform!  He  never  knew  how 
he  clambered  up  the  rest  of  the  slippery  ascent.  A  double 
energy  seemed  given  to  his  active  limbs.  He  never  paused 
again  for  one  second  till  he  also  stood  on  the  platform,  without 
being  heard  or  perceived  by  either  Sigurd  or  Philip.  Their 
backs  were  turned  to  him,  and  he  feared  to  move  or  speak, 
lest  a  sudden  surprised  movement  on  their  parts  should  have 


212  THELMA. 

the  fatal  result  of  precipitating  one  or  both  into  the  fall.  He 
remained,  therefore,  behind  them,  silent  and  motionless — 
looking,  as  they  looked,  at  the  terrific  scene  below.  From 
that  point,  Xjedegorze  was  as  a  huge  boiling  caldron,  from 
which  arose  twisted  wreaths  and  coiling  lengths  of  white 
vapor,  faintly  colored  with  gold  and  silvery  blue.  Dispersing 
in  air.  these  mists  took  all  manner  of  fantastic  forms — ghostly 
arms  seemed  to  wave  and  beckon,  ghostly  hands  to  unite  in 
prayer — and  fluttering  creatures  in  gossamer  draperies  of  green 
and  crimson  appeared  to  rise  and  float  and  retire  and  shrink 
to  nothingness  again  in  the  rainbow  drift  and  sweep  of  wliirl- 
ing  foam.  Errington  gazed  unconcernedly  down  on  the 
seething  abyss.  He  pushed  back  his  cap  from  liis  brow,  and 
let  the  fresh  wind  play  among  his  dark,  clustering  curls.  His 
nerves  were  steady,  and  he  surveyed  the  giddily  twisting 
wheels  of  sliining  water  without  any  corresponding  giddiness 
in  his  own  brain.  He  had  that  sincere  delight  in  a  subhme 
natural  spectacle  which  is  the  heritage  of  all  who  possess  a 
poetic  and  artistic  temperament;  and  though  he  stood  on  a 
frail  ledge  of  rock,  from  which  one  false  or  unwan"  st^p  might 
send  him  to  certain  destruction,  he  had  not  the  slightest  sense 
of  possible  danger  in  his  position,  Withdrawing  his  eyes 
from  the  fall,  he  looked  kindly  down  at  Sigurd,  who  in  turn 
was  staring  up  at  him  with  a  wild  fixity  of  regard. 

"Well,  old  boy,''  he  said,  cheerfully,  "this  is  a  fine  sight! 
Have  you  had  enough  of  it?     Shall  we  go  back?" 

Sigurd  drew  imperceptibly  nearer.  Lorimer,  from  his  point 
of  vantage  beliind  a  huge  bowlder,  drew  nearer  also. 

"Go  back?"  echoed  Sigurd.    "Why  should  we  go  back?" 

"Why,  indeed!"  laughed  Errington,  lightly  balancing  liim- 
self  on  the  trembling  rocks  beneath  him.  "Except  that  I 
should  scarcely  think  this  is  the  best  place  on  which  to  pass 
the  night!  Xot  enough  room,  and  too  much  noise!  What 
say  you?" 

"Oh,  brave,  brave  fool!"  cried  the  dwarf  in  sudden  excite- 
ment, ''Are  you  not  afraid?" 

The  vounff  baronet's  keen  eves  glanced  him  over  with 
amused  wonder. 

"Wliat  of?"  he  demanded,  coolly.  Still  nearer  came  Sigurd 
— nearer  also  came  the  watchful,  though  almost  invisible 
Lorimer. 

"Look   down   there!"   continued   Sigurd,   in   shrill   tones. 


THELMA.  213 

pointing  to  the  foaming  gulf.  "Look  at  the  Elf-danz — see  the 
beautiful  spirits  with  the  long  pale  green  hair  and  glittering 
wings!  See  how  they  beckon,  beckon,  beckon  I  They  want 
some  one  to  join  them — look  how  their  white  arms  wave — 
they  throw  back  their  golden  veils  and  smile  at  us!  They  call 
to  you — ^you  with  the  strong  figure  and  the  proud  eyes — why 
do  you  not  go  to  them?  They  will  kiss  and  caress  you — they 
have  sweet  lips  and  snow-white  bosoms — they  will  love  you 
and  take  care  of  you — they  are  as  fair  as  Thelma!" 

"Are  they?  I  doubt  it!"  and  Errington  smiled  dreamily  as 
he  turned  his  head  again  toward  the  fleecy  whirl  of  white 
water,  and  saw  at  once  with  an  artist's  quick  eye  what  his  sick- 
brain  companion  meant  by  the  Elf-danz,  in  the  fantastic  twist- 
ing, gliding  shapes  tossed  up  in  the  vaporous  mist  of  the  fall. 
"But  I'll  take  your  word,  Sigurd,  without  making  the  elves' 
personal  acquaintance !  Come  along — this  place  is  bad  for  you 
— we'll  dance  with  the  green-haired  nymphs  another  time." 

And  with  a  light  laugh  he  was  about  to  turn  away,  when  he 
was  surprised  by  a  sudden,  strange  convulsion  of  Sigurd's 
countenance — his  blue  eyes  flashed  wath  an  almost  phosphor- 
escent luster — his  pale  skin  flushed  darkly  red,  and  the  veins 
in  his  forehead  started  into  swelled  and  knotted  prominence. 

"Another  time!"  he  screamed  loudly;  "no,  no!  Now — now! 
Die,  robber  of  Thelma's  love!    Die — die — die!" 

Repeating  these  words  like  quick  gasps  of  fury,  he  twisted 
his  meager  arms  tightly  round  Errington,  and  thrust  him 
fiercely  with  all  his  might  toward  the  edge  of  the  fall.  For 
one  second  Philip  strove  against  him — the  next,  he  closed  his 
eyes — Thelma's  face  smiled  on  his  mind  in  that  darkness  as 
though  in  white  farewell — the  surging  blood  roared  in  his  ears 
with  more  thunder  than  the  terrific  tumble  of  the  torrent — 
"God!"  he  muttered,  and  then — then  he  stood  safe  on  the 
upper  part  of  the  rocky  platform  with  Lorimer's  strong  hand 
holding  him  in  a  vice-like  grasp,  and  Lorimer's  face,  pale,  but 
looking  cheerfully  into  his.  For  a  moment  he  was  too  bewil- 
dered to  speak.  His  friend  loosened  him  and  laughed  rather 
forcedly — a  slight  tremble  of  his  lips  was  observable  under  his 
fair  mustache. 

"By  Jove,  Pliil,"  he  remarked  in  his  usual  nonchalant  man- 
ner, "that  was  rather  a  narrow  shave!  Fortunate  I  happened 
to  be  there!" 

Errington  gazed  about  him  confusedly.  "Where's  Sigurd?" 
he  asked. 


214  THELMA. 

"Gone!  Ean  off  like  a  'leapin'  goat/  as  Sandy  elegantly 
describes  Mm.  I  tliought  at  first  he  meant  to  jump  over  the 
fall,  in  Avhich  case  I  should  have  been  compelled  to  let  him 
have  his  own  way,  as  my  hands  were  full.  But  he's  taken  a 
safe  landward  direction." 

"Didn't  he  try  to  push  me  over?" 

"Exactly!  He  was  quite  convinced  that  the  mermaids 
wanted  you.  But  I  considered  that  ]\iiss  Thelma's  wishes 
had  a  prior  claim  on  my  regard." 

"Look  here,  old  man,"  said  Errington,  suddenly,  "don't  jest 
about  it!    You  saved  my  life!" 

"Well!"  and  Lorimer  laughed.  "Quite  by  accident,  I  assure 
you." 

"Not  by  accident!"  and  Philip  flushed  up,  looking  very 
handsome  and  earnest.  "I  beheve  you  followed  us  up  here 
thinking  something  might  happen.    Now  didn't  you?" 

^  "Suppose  I  did,"  began  Lorimer,  but  he  was  interrupted  by 
his  friend,  who  seized  his  hand  and  pressed  it  with  a  warm, 
close,  affectionate  fervor.  Their  eyes  met — and  Lorimer 
blushed  as  though  he  had  performed  some  action  meriting 
blame  rather  than  gratitude.  "That'll  do,  old  fellow,"  he 
said,  almost  nervously.  "As  we  say  in  polite  society  when 
some  one  crushes  our  favorite  corn  under  his  heel — don't 
mention  it!  You  see  Sigurd  is  cracked — there's-  not  the 
slightest  doubt  about  that — and  he's  hardly  accountable  for 
his  vagaries.  Then  I  know  something  about  him  that  perhaps 
you  don't.    He  loves  your  Thelma!" 

They  were  making  the  descent  of  the  rocks  together,  and 
Errington  stopped  short  in  surprise. 

"Loves  Thelma!    You  mean  as  a  brother — " 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't!  I  mean  that  he  loves  her  as  brothers 
often  love  other  people's  sisters — his  affection  is  by  no  means 
fraternal — if  it  were  only  that — " 

"I  see!"  and  Philip's  eyes  filled  with  a  look  of  grave  com- 
passion. "Poor  fellow!  I  understand  his  hatred  of  me  now. 
Good  heavens!  how  he  must  suffer!  I  forgive  him  with  all 
my  heart.     But — I  say,  Thelma  has  no  idea  of  this!" 

"Of  course  not!  And  you'd  better  not  tell  her.  What's  the 
good  of  making  her  unhappy?" 

"But  how  did  you  learn  it?"  inquired  Philip,  with  a  look  of 
some  curiosity  at  his  friend. 

"Oh,  I!"  and  Lorimer  laughed  carelessly;  "I  was  always  an 


THELMA.  215 

observing  sort  of  fellow — fond  of  putting  two  and  two  together 
and  making  four  of  them  when  1  wasn't  too  exhausted  and  the 
weather  wasn't  too  hot  for  the  process.  Sigurd's  rather  at- 
tached to  me — indulges  me  with  some  specially  private  rav- 
ings now  and  then.  I  soon  found  out  his  secret,  though  I 
believe  the  poor  little  chap  doesn't  understand  his  own  feel- 
ings himself." 

"Well,"  said  Errington,  thoughtfully,  "under  the  circum- 
stances you'd  better  not  mention  this  affair  of  the  fall  to 
Guldmar.  It  will  only  vex  him.  Sigurd  won't  try  such  a 
prank  again." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  replied  Lorimer;  "but  you  know 
enough  now  to  be  on  your  guard  with  him."  He  paused  and 
looked  up  with  a  misty  softness  in  his  frank  blue  eyes — then 
went  on  in  a  subdued  tone — "When  I  saw  you  on  the  edge  of 
that  frightful  chasm,  Phil — "  He  broke  off  as  if  the  recollec- 
tion were  too  painful,  and  exclaimed,  suddenly:  "Good  God! 
If  I  had  lost  you!" 

Errington  clapped  one  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Well!  What  if  you  had?"  he  asked  mirthfully,  though 
there  was  a  suspicious  tremble  in  his  ringing  voice. 

"I  should  have  said  with  Horatio,  'I  am  more  an  antique 
Roman  than  a  Dane' — and  gone  after  you,"  laughed  Lorimer. 
"And  who  knows  what  a  jolly  banquet  we  might  not  have 
been  enjoying  in  the  next  world  by  this  time?  If  I  believe  in 
anything  at  all,  I  believe  in  a  really  agreeable  heaven — nectar 
and  ambrosia,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  Hebes  to  wait 
upon  you." 

As  he  spoke  they  reached  the  sheltering  hut,  where  Guld- 
mar,  Duprez,  and  Macfarlane  were  waiting  rather  impatiently 
for  them. 

"Where's  Sigurd?"  cried  the  bonde. 

"Gone  for  a  ramble  on  his  own  account,"  answered  Erring- 
ton, readily.    "You  know  his  fancies!" 

"I  wish  his  fancies  would  leave  him,"  grumbled  Guldmar. 
"He  promised  to  light  a  fire  and  spread  the  meal — and  now, 
who  knows  whither  he  has  wandered?" 

"Never  mind,  sir,"  said  Lorimer.  "Engage  me  as  a  kitchen- 
boy.  I  can  light  a  fire,  and  can  also  sit  beside  it  when  it  is 
properly  kindled.  More  I  can  not  promise.  As  the  house- 
maids say  when  they  object  to  assist  the  cook — it  would  be 
beneath  me." 


216  THELMA. 

"Cook!"  cried  Duprez,  catching  at  this  word.  "I  can  cook! 
Give  me  anything  to  broil.  I  will  broil  it!  You  have  coffee 
— I  will  make  it!"  And  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  he  Jiad 
divested  himself  of  his  coat,  turned  up  his  cuffs,  and  manu- 
factured the  cap  of  a  chef  out  of  a  newspaper  which  he  stuck 
jauntily  on  his  head.  "Behold  me,  messieurs,  a  voire 
service!" 

His  liveliness  was  infectious;  they  all  set  to  work  with  a 
will,  and  in  a  few  moments  a  crackling  wood  fire  blazed 
cheerily  on  the  ground,  and  the  gypsy  preparations  for  the 
al-fresco  supper  went  on  apace  amid  peals  of  laughter.  Soon 
the  fragrance  of  steaming  coffee  arose  and  mingled  itself  with 
the  resinous  odors  of  the  surrounding  pine  trees — while  Mac- 
farlane  distinguished  himself  by  catching  a  fine  salmon  trout 
in  a  quiet  nook  of  the  rushing  river,  and  this  Duprez  cooked 
in  a  style  that  would  have  done  honor  to  a  cordon  bleu.  They 
made  an  excellent  meal,  and  sung  songs  in  turn  and  told 
stories — Olaf  Guldmar,  in  particular,  related  eerie  legends  of 
the  Dovre-f  jelde,  and  many  a  striking  story  of  ancient  origin, 
full  of  terror  and  superstition — concerning  witches,  devils, 
and  spirits  both  good  and  evil,  who  are  still  believed  to  have 
their  abode  on  the  Norwegian  hills — for,  as  the  bonde  re- 
marked with  a  smile,  "when  civilization  has  driven  these 
unearthly  beings  from  every  other  refuge  in  the  world,  they 
will  always  be  sure  of  a  welcome  in  Norway." 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  they  at  last  retired  within  the 
hut  to  rest  for  the  night,  and  the  errant  Sigurd  had  not  re- 
turned. The  sun  shone  brilliantly,  but  there  was  no  window 
to  the  small  shed,  and  light  and  air  came  only  through  the 
door,  which  was  left  wide  open.  The  tired  travelers  lay  down 
on  their  spread-out  rugs  and  blankets,  and  wishing  each  other 
a  cheerful  "good-night,"  were  soon  fast  asleep.  Errington 
was  rather  restless,  and  lay  awake  for  some  little  time,  listen- 
ing to  the  stormy  discourse  of  the  fall;  but  at  last  his  eyelids 
yielded  to  the  heaviness  that  oppressed  them,  and  he  sunk 
into  a  light  slumber. 

Meanwhile  the  imperial  sun  rode  majestically  downward  to 
the  edge  of  the  horizon — and  the  sky  blushed  into  the  pale  tint 
of  a  wild  rose,  that  deepened  softly  and  steadily  with,  an  ever- 
increasing  fiery  brilliance  as  the  minutes  glided  noiselessly 
on  to  the  enchanted  midnight  hour.  A  wind  began  to  rustle 
mysteriously    among    the    pines — then     gradually     growing 


THELMA.  217 

wrathful,  strove  to  whistle  a  loud  defiance  to  the  roar  of  the 
tumbling  waters.  Through  the  little  nooks  and  crannies  of 
the  roughly  constructed  cabin  where  the  travelers  slept,  it 
uttered  small  wild  shrieks  of  warning  or  dismay — and,  sud- 
denly, as  though  touched  by  an  invisible  hand,  Sir  Philip 
awoke.  A  crimson  glare  streaming  through  the  open  door 
dazzled  his  drowsy  eyes — was  it  a  forest  on  fire?  He  started 
up  in  dreamy  alarm — then  he  remembered  where  he  was. 
Kealizing  that  there  must  be  an  exceptionally  fine  sky  to  cast 
so  ruddy  a  reflection  on  the  ground,  he  threw  on  his  cloak  and 
went  outside. 

What  a  wondrous,  almost  unearthly  scene  greeted  him? 
His  first  impulse  was  to  shout  aloud  in  sheer  ecstasy — his 
next  to  stand  silent  in  reverential  awe.  The  great  fall  was  no 
longer  a  sweeping  flow  of  white  foam — it  had  changed  to  a 
sparkling  shower  of  rubies,  as  though  some  great  genii,  tired 
of  his  treasures,  were  flinging  them  away  by  giant  handfuls, 
in  the  most  reckless  haste  and  lavish  abundance.  From  the 
bottom  of  the  cascade  a  crimson  vapor  arose,  like  smoke  from 
flame,  and  the  whirling  rapids,  deeply  red  for  the  most  part, 
darkened  here  and  there  into  an  olive  green  flecked  with  gold, 
while  the  spray,  tossed  high  over  interrupting  rocks  and 
bowlders,  glittered  as  it  fell  like  small  fragments  of  broken 
opal.  The  sky  was  of  one  dense  uniform  rose-color  from  west 
to  east — soft  and  shimmering  as  a  broad  satin  pavilion  freshly 
unrolled — the  sun  was  invisible,  hidden  behind  the  adjacent 
mountains,  but  his  rays  touched  some  peaks  in  the  distance, 
on  which  white  wreaths  of  snow  lay,  bringing  them  into  near 
and  sparkling  prominence. 

The  whole  landscape  was  transformed — the  tall  trees  rus- 
tlino;  and  swavino;  in  the  now  boisterous  wind  took  all  flicker- 
ing  tints  of  color  on  their  trunks  and  leaves — the  gray  stones 
and  pebbles  turned  to  lumps  of  gold  and  heaps  of  diamonds, 
and  on  the  other  side  of  the  rapids,  a  large  tuft  of  heather  in 
a  cleft  of  the  rocks  glowed  with  extraordinary  vividness  and 
warmth  like  a  suddenly  kindled  fire.  A  troop  of  mtches 
dancing  wildly  on  the  sward — a  ring  of  fairies — kelpies  trip- 
ping from  crag  to  crag — a  sudden  chorus  of  sweet-voieed 
water-nymphs — nothing  unreal  or  fantastical  would  have  sur- 
prised Errington  at  that  moment.  Indeed,  he  almost  expected 
something  of  the  kind — the  scene  was  so  eminently  fitted  for 
it. 


218  THELMA. 

"Positively,  I  must  wake  Lorimer,"  he  thought  to  himself. 
"He  oughtn't  to  miss  such  a  gorgeous  spectacle  as  tliis." 

He  moved  a  little  more  in  position  to  view  the  fall.  What 
was  that  small  dark  object  running  swiftly  yet  steadily  along 
on  the  highest  summit  of  those  jutting  crags?  He  rubbed  his 
eyes  amazedly — was  it — could  it  be  Sigurd?  He  watched  it 
for  a  moment — then  uttered  a  loud  cry  as  he  saw  it  pause  on 
the  very  ledge  of  rock  from  which  but  a  short  while  since  he 
himself  had  been  so  nearly  precipitated.  The  figure  was  now 
distinctly  visible,  outlined  in  black  against  the  flaming  crim- 
son of  the  sky — it  stood  upright  and  waved  its  arms  with  a 
frantic  gesture.     There  was  no  mistaking  it — it  was  Sigurd. 

Without  another  second's  hesitation  Errington  hurried  back 
to  the  hut  and  awoke,  with  clamorous  alarm,  the  rest  of  the 
party.  His  brief  explanation  sufficed — they  all  hurried  forth 
in  startled  excitement.  Sigurd  still  occupied  his  hazardous 
position,  and  as  they  looked  at  him  he  seemed  to  dance  wildly 
nearer  the  extreme  edge  of  the  rocky  platform.  Old  Guldmar 
turned  pale.  "The  gods  preserve  him!"  he  muttered  in  his 
Itieard — then  turning,  he  began  resolutely  to  make  the  ascent 
of  the  rocks  with  long,  rapid  strides— the  young  men  followed 
him  eager  and  almost  breathless,  each  and  all  bent  upon  sav- 
ing Sigurd  from  the  danger  in  which  he  stood,  and  trying  by 
different  ways  to  get  more  quickly  near  the  unfortunate  lad 
and  call,  or  draw  him  back  by  force  from  his  point  of  immi- 
nent deadly  peril.  They  were  more  than  half-way  up,  when 
a  piercing  cry  rang  clearly  above  the  thunderous  din  of  the 
fall — a  cry  that  made  them  pause  for  a  moment. 

Sigurd  caught  sight  of  the  figures  advancing  to  his  rescue, 
and  was  waving  them  back  with  eloquent  gestures  of  anger 
and  defiance.  His  small  misshapen  body  was  alive  with  wrath 
— it  seemed  as  though  he  were  some  dwarf  king  ruling  over 
the  glittering  crimson  torrent,  and  grimly  forbidding  stran- 
gers to  enter  on  the  boundaries  of  his  magic  territory.  They, 
however,  pressed  on  with  renewed  haste — and  they  had  nearly 
reached  the  summit  when  another  shrill  cry  echoed  over  the 
sunset-colored  foam. 

Once  more  they  paused — they  were  in  full  view  of  the  dis- 
traught Sigurd,  and  he  turned  his  head  toward  them,  shaking 
back  his  long  fair  hair  with  his  old  favorite  gesture  and  laugh- 
ing in  apparent  glee.     Then  he  suddenly  raised  his  arms,  and, 


THELMA.  219 

clasping  his  hands  together,  poised  himself  as  though  he  were 
some  winged  thing  about  to  fly. 

"Sigurd!  Sigurd!"  shouted  Guldmar,  his  strong  voice  trem- 
ulous with  anguish.     "Come  back!  come  back  to  Thelma!" 

At  the  sound  of  that  beloved  name,  the  unhappy  creature 
seemed  to  hesitate,  and,  profiting  by  that  instant  of  irresolu- 
tion, Errington  and  Lorimer  rushed  forward —  Too  late! 
Sigurd  saw  them  coming,  and  glided  with  stealthy  caution  to 
the  very  brink  of  the  torrent,  where  there  was  scarcely  any 
foothold — there  he  looked  back  at  his  would-be  rescuers  with 
an  air  of  mystery  and  cunning,  and  broke  into  a  loud  derisive 
laugh. 

Then  still  with  clasped  hands  and  smiling  face — unheeding 
the  shout  of  horror  that  broke  from  those  who  beheld  him — he 
leaped,  and  fell!  Down,  down  into  the  roaring  abyss!  For 
one  half  second — one  lightning  flash — his  twisted  figure,  like 
a  slight  black  speck,  was  seen  against  the  wide  roseate  glory 
of  the  tumbling  cascade — then — it  disappeared,  ingulfed  and 
lost  forever!  Gone — with  all  his  wild  poet  fancies  and  wan- 
dering dreams — gone,  with  his  unspoken  love  and  unguessed 
sorrows — gone  where  dark  things  shall  be  made  hght — and 
where  the  broken  or  tangled  chain  of  the  soul's  intelligence 
shall  be  mended  and  made  perfect  by  the  tender  hands  of  the 
All-Wise  and  the  All-Loving  One,  whose  ways  are  too  glori- 
ously vast  for  our  finite  comprehension. 

"Gone,  mistress!"  as  he  would  have  said  to  the  innocent 
cause  of  his  heart's  anguish.  "Gone  where  I  shall  grow 
straight  and  strong  and  brave!  Mistress,  if  you  meet  me  in 
Valhalla,  you  will  love  me!" 


CHAPTEE    XVII. 

Do  not,  I  pray  you,  think  evilly  of  so  holy  a  man!  He  has  a  sore 
combat  against  the  flesh  and  the  devil! — Tlie  Maid  fo  Honor. 

The  horror-stricken  spectators  of  the  catastrophe  stood  for 
a  minute  inert  and  speechless — stupefied  by  its  suddenness 
and  awful  rapidity.  Then  with  one  accord  they  hurried  down 
to  the  level  shore  of  the  torrent,  moved  by  the  unanimous  idea 
that  they  might  possibly  succeed  4n  rescuing  Sigurd's  frail 


220  THELMA. 

corpse  from  the  sharp  teeth  of  the  jagged  rocks,  that,  piercing 
upward  through  the  foam  of  the  roaring  rapids,  were  certain 
to  bruise,  tear,  and  disfigure  it  beyond  all  recognition.  But 
even  this  small  satisfaction  was  denied  them.  There  was  no 
sign  of  a  floating  or  struggling  body  anywhere  visible.  And 
while  they  kept  an  eager  lookout  the  light  in  the  heavens 
slowly  changed.  From  burning  crimson  it  softened  to  a  ten- 
der amethyst  hue,  as  smooth  and  delicate  as  the  glossy  pale 
tint  of  the  purple  clematis — and  with  it  the  rosy  foam  of  the 
fall  graduated  to  varying  tints  of  pink,  from  pink  to  tender 
green,  and  lastly,  it  became  as  a  shower  of  amber  wine.  Guld- 
mar  spoke  first  in  a  voice  broken  by  deep  emotion. 

"  'Tis  all  over  with  him,  poor  lad!"  he  said,  and  tears  glit- 
tered thickly  in  his  keen  old  eyes.  "And — though  the  gods, 
of  a  surety,  know  best — this  is  an  end  I  looked  not  for!  A 
mournful  home-returning  shall  we  have — for  how  to  break  the 
news  to  Thelma  is  more  than  I  can  tell!" 

And  he  shook  his  head  sorrowfully  while  returning  the 
warm  and  sympathizing  pressure  of  Errington's  hand. 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  with  a  wistful  look  at  the  grave  and 
compassionate  face  of  his  accepted  son-in-law — "the  boy  was 
no  boy  of  mine,  'tis  true — and  the  winds  had  more  than  their 
share  of  his  wits — yet — we  knew  him  from  a  baby — and  my 
wife  loved  him  for  his  sad  estate,  which  he  was  not  to  blame 
for.     Thelma,  too — he  was  her  first  playmate — " 

The  bonde  could  trust  himself  to  say  no  more,  but  turned 
abruptly  away,  brushing  one  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  was 
silent  for  many  minutes.  The  young  men,  too,  were  silent — 
Sigurd's  determined  suicide  had  chilled  and  sickened  them. 
Slowly  they  returned  to  the  hut  to  pass  the  remaining  hours 
of  the  night — though  sleep  was,  of  course,  after  what  they  had 
witnessed,  impossible.  They  remained  awake,  therefore,  talk- 
ing in  low  tones  of  the  fatal  event,  and  listening  to  the 
solemn  sough  of  the  wind  through  the  pines,  that  sounded  to 
Errington's  ears  like  a  monotonous  forest  dirge.  He  thought 
of  the  first  time  he  had  ever  seen  the  unhappy  creature  whose 
wandering  days  had  just  ended— of  that  scene  in  the  mysteri- 
ous shell  cavern — of  the  wild  words  he  had  then  uttered — how 
strangely  they  came  back  to  Philip's  memory  now! 

"You  have  come  as  a  thief  in  the  golden  midnight,  and  the 
thing  you  seek  is  the  life  of  Sigurd!  Yes— yes!  it  is  true— the 
spirit  "cannot  lie!    You  nlust  kill,  you  must  steal— see  how 


THELMA.  221 

the  blood  drips,  drop  by  drop,  from  the  heart  of  Sigurd!  and 
the  jewel  you  steal — ah!  what  a  jewel!  You  shall  not  find 
such  another  in  Norway!"  Was  not  the  hidden  meaning  of 
these  incoherent  phrases  rendered  somewhat  clear  now? 
though  how  the  poor  lad's  disordered  imagination  had  been 
able  thus  promptly  to  conjure  up  with  such  correctness  an  idea 
of  Errington's  future  relations  with  Thelma  was  a  riddle  im- 
possible of  explanation.  He  thought,  too,  with  a  sort  of  gen- 
erous remorse,  of  that  occasion  when  Sigurd  had  visited  him 
on  board  the  yacht  to  implore  him  to  leave  the  Alten  Fjord. 
He  realized  everything — the  inchoate  desires  of  the  desolate 
being,  who,  though  intensely  capable  of  loving,  felt  himself  in 
a  dim,  sad  way,  unworthy  of  love — the  struggling  passions  in 
him  that  clamored  for  utterance — the  instinctive  dread  and 
jealousy  of  a  rival,  while  knowing  that  he  was  both  physically 
and  mentally  unfitted  to  compete  with  one — all  these  things 
passed  through  Philip's  mind,  and  filled  him  with  a  most  pro- 
found pity  for  the  hidden  sufferings,  the  tortures  and  in- 
explicable emotions  which  had  racked  Sigurd's  darkened  soul. 
And,  still  busy  with  these  reflections,  he  turned  on  his  arm  as 
he  lay,  and  whispered  softly  to  his  friend  who  was  close  by  him: 

"I  say,  Lorimer — I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  to  blame  somehow 
in  this  affair!  If  I  had  never  come  on  the  scene,  Sigurd  would 
still  have  been  happy  in  his  own  way." 

Lorimer  was  silent.  After  a  pause,  Errington  went  on  still 
in  the  same  low  tone. 

"Poor  little  fellow!  Do  you  know,  I  can't  imagine  anything 
more  utterly  distracting  than  having  to  see  such  a  woman  as 
Thelma  day  after  day — loving  her  all  the  time,  and  knowing 
such  love  to  be  absolutely  hopeless!  Why,  it  was  enough  to 
make  him  crazier  than  ever!" 

Lorimer  moved  restlessly.  *^es,  it  must  have  been  hard 
on  him!"  he  answered,  at  last,  in  a  gentle,  somewhat  sad  tone. 
"Perhaps  it's  as  well  he's  out  of  it  all.  Life  is  infinitely  per- 
plexing to  many  of  us.  By  this  time  he's  no  doubt  wiser  than 
you  or  I,  Phil — he  could  tell  us  the  reason  why  love  is  such  a 
blessing  to  some  men,  and  such  a  curse  to  others!" 

Errington  made  no  answer,  and  they  relapsed  into  silence — 
silence  which  was  almost  unbroken  save  by  an  occasional  deep 
sigh  from  Olaf  Guldmar,  and  a  smothered  exclamation  such  as, 
"Poor  lad,  poor  lad!     Who  would  have  thought  it?" 

With  the  eaxly  dawn  they  were  all  up  and  ready  for  the 


222  THELMA. 

homeward  journey — though  with  very  different  feelings  to 
those  with  which  they  had  started  on  their  expedition.  The 
morning  was  dazzlingly  bright  and  clear — and  the  cataract  of 
Njedegorze  rolled  down  in  glittering  folds  of  creamy  white 
and  green,  uttering  its  ceaseless  psalm  of  praise  to  the  Creator 
in  a  jubilant  roar  of  musical  thunder.  They  paused  and 
looked  at  it  for  the  last  time  before  leaving — it  had  assumed 
for  them  a  new  and  solemn  aspect- — it  was  Sigurd's  grave. 
The  bonde  raised  his  cap  from  his  rough  white  hair — instinct- 
ively the  others  followed  his  example. 

"]\Iay  the  gods  grant  him  good  rest!"  said  the  old  man, 
reverently.  "In  the  wildest  waters  they  say  there  is  a  calm 
under-flow — may  be  the  lad  has  found  it  and  is  glad  to  sleep." 
He  paused  and  stretched  his  hands  forth  with  an  eloquent  and 
touching  gesture.     "Peace  be  with  him!" 

Then,  without  more  words,  as  though  disdaining  his  own 
emotion,  he  turned  abruptly  away,  and  began  to  descend  the 
stony  and  precipitous  hill  up  which  Sigurd  had  so  skillfully 
guided  them  the  day  before.  Macfarlane  and  Duprez  followed 
him  close — Macfarlane  casting  more  than  once  a  keen  look- 
over  the  rapids. 

"  'Tis  a  pity  we  couldna  find  his  body,"  he  said  in  a  low 
tone. 

Duprez  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Sigurd's  death  had  shocked 
him  considerably  by  its  suddenness,  but  he  was  too  much  of  a 
volatile  Frenchman  to  be  morbidly  anxious  about  securing 
the  corpse. 

"I  think  not  so  at  all,"  he  said.  "Of  what  use  would  it  be? 
To  grieve  mademoiselle?  to  make  her  cry?  That  would  be 
cruel — I  would  not  assist  in  it!  A  dead  body  is  not  a  sight  for 
ladies — believe  me,  things  are  best  as  they  are." 

They  went  on,  while  Errington  and  Lorimer  lingered  yet  a 
moment  longer. 

"A  magnificent  sepulcher!"  said  Lorimer,  dreamily  eying  for 
the  last  time  the  sweeping  flow  of  the  glittering  torrent.  "Bet- 
ter than  all  the  monuments  ever  erected!  Upon  my  life,  I 
would  not  mind  having  such  a  grave  myself!  Say  what  you 
like,  Phil,  there  was  something  grand  in  Sigurd's  choice  of  a 
death.  AVe  all  of  us  have  to  get  out  of  life  somehow  one  day 
— that's  certain — but  few  of  us  have  the  chance  of  making  such 
a  triumphant  exit!" 

Errington  looked  at  him  with  a  grave  smile.     "How  you 


THELMA.  223 

talk,  George!"  he  said,  half  reproachfully.  "One  would  think 
you  envied  the  end  of  that  unfortunate,  half-witted  fellow! 
You've  no  reason  to  be  tired  of  your  life,  I'm  sure — all  your 
bright  days  are  before  you." 

"Are  they?"  And  Lorimer's  blue  eyes  looked  slightly 
melancholy.  "Well,  I  dare  say  they  are!  Let's  hope  so  at 
all  events.  There  need  be  something  before  me — there  isn't 
much  behind  except  wasted  opportunities.     Come  on,  Phil!" 

They  resumed  their  walk,  and  soon  rejoined  the  others. 
The  journey  back  to  the  Alten  Fjord  was  continued  all  day 
with  but  one  or  two  interruptions  for  rest  and  refreshment.  It 
was  decided  that  on  reaching  home,  old  Guldmar  should  pro- 
ceed a  little  in  advance,  in  order  to  see  his  daughter  alone 
first,  and  break  to  her  the  news  of  the  tragic  event  that  had 
occurred — so  that  when,  after  a  long  and  toilsome  journey, 
they  caught  sight,  at  about  eight  in  the  evening,  of  the  famil- 
iar farm-house  through  the  branches  of  the  trees  that  sur- 
rounded and  sheltered  it,  they  all  came  to  a  halt. 

The  young  men  seated  themselves  on  a  pleasant  knoll 
under  some  tall  pines,  there  to  wait  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so, 
while  the  bonde  went  forward  to  prepare  Thelma.  On  second 
thoughts,  the  old  man  asked  Emngton  to  accompany  him — a 
request  to  which  he  very  readily  acceded,  and  these  two, 
leaving  the  others  to  follow  at  their  leisure,  went  on  their 
way  rapidly.  They  arrived  at,  and  entered  the  garden — their 
footsteps  made  a  crunching  noise  on  the  pebbly  path — but  no 
welcoming  face  looked  forth  from  any  of  the  windows  of  the 
house.  The  entrance  door  stood  wide  open — there  was  not  a 
living  soul  to  be  seen  but  the  kitten  asleep  in  a  corner  of  the 
porch,  and  the  doves  drowsing  on  the  roof  in  the  sunshine. 
The  deserted  air  of  the  place  was  unmistakable,  and  Guldmar 
and  Errington  exchanged  looks  of  wonder  not  unmixed  with 
alarm. 

"Thelma!  Thelma!"  called  the  bonde,  anxiously.  There 
was  no  response.  He  entered  the  house  and  threw  open  the 
kitchen  door.  There  was  no  fire — and  not  the  sHghtest  sign 
of  any  of  the  usual  preparations  for  supper. 

"Britta!"  shouted  Guldmar.  Still  no  answer.  "By  the 
gods!"  he  exclaimed,  turning  to  the  astonished  Phihp,  "this  is 
a  strange  thing!  Where  can  the  girls  be?  I  have  never 
known  both  of  them  to  be  absent  from  the  house  at  the  same 
time.  Go  down  the  shore,  my  lad,  and  see  if  Thelma's  boat 
is  missing,  while  I  search  the  garden." 


224  THELMA. 

Errington  obeyed— hurrying  off  on  his  errand  with  a  heart 
beating  fast  from  sudden  fear  and  anxiety.  For  he  knew 
Thelma  was  not  likely  to  have  gone  out  of  her  own  accord  at 
the  very  time  she  would  have  naturally  expected  her  father 
and  his  friends  back,  and  the  absence  of  Britta,  too,  was,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  extraordinary.  He  reached  the  pier  very 
speedily,  and  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  boat  was  gone.  He 
hastened  back  to  report  this  to  Guldmar,  who  was  making  the 
whole  place  resound  with  his  shouts  of  "Thelma!"  and 
"Britta!"  though  he  shouted  altogether  in  vain. 

"May  be,"  he  said,  dubiously,  on  hearing  of  the  missing 
boat— "May  be  the  child  has  gone  on  the  fjord— 'tis  often  her 
custom— but,  then,  where  is  Britta?  Besides,  they  must  have 
expected  us — they  would  have  prepared  supper — they  would 
have  been  watching  for  our  return.  No,  no!  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  about  this — 'tis  altogether  unusual." 

And  he  looked  about  him  in  a  bewildered  way,  while  Sir 
Philip,  noting  his  uneasiness,  grew  more  and  more  uneasy 
himself. 

"Let  me  go  and  search  for  them,  sir,"  he  said,  eagerly. 
"They  may  be  in  the  woods,  or  up  toward  the  orchard." 

Guldmar  shook  his  head  and  drew  his  fuzzy  white  brows 
together  m  a  puzzled  meditation — suddenly  he  started  and 
struck  his  staff  forcibly  on  the  ground. 

"I  have  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "That  old  hag  Lovisa  is  at  the 
bottom  of  this!" 

"By  Jove!"  cried  Errington.  "I  believe  you're  right! 
What  shall  we  do?" 

At  that  moment  Lorimer,  Duprez,  and  Macfarlane  came  on 
the  scene  thinking  they  had  kept  aloof  long  enough — and  the 
strange  disappearance  of  the  two  girls  was  rapidly  explained  to 
them.  They  listened,  astonished  and  almost  incredulous,  but 
agreed  with  the  bonde  as  to  Lo visa's  probable  share  in  the 
matter. 

"Look  here!"  said  Lorimer,  excitedly.  "I'm  not  in  the 
least  tired — show  me  the  way  to  Talvig,  where  that  old 
screech-owl  lives,  and  I'll  go  there  straight  as  a  gun! 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  she  has  not  forced  away  her  grandchild, 
in  which  case  Miss  Thelma  may  have  gone  after  her." 

"I'll  come  with  you!"  said  Errington.  "Let's  lose  no  time 
about  it." 

But  Guldmar  shook  his  head.    "  'Tis  a  long  way,  my  lads — 


THELMA.  225 

and  you  do  not  know  the  road.  No — 'twill  be  better  we 
should  take  the  boat  and  pull  over  to  Bosekop;  there  we  can 
get  a  carriole  to  take  two  of  us  at  least  to  Talvig — " 

He  stopped,  interrupted  by  Macfarlane,  who  looked  particu- 
larly shrewd. 

"I  should  certainly  advise  ye  to  try  Bosekop  first,"  he  re- 
marked cautiously.  "Mr.  Dyceworthy  might  be  able  to  pro- 
vide ye  with  valuable  information." 

"Dyceworthy!"  roared  the  bonde,  becoming  inflammable  at 
once.  "He  knows  little  of  me  or  mine,  thank  the  gods!  and 
I  should  not  by  choice  step  within  a  mile  of  his  dwelhng. 
What  makes  you  think  of  him,  sir?" 

Lorimer  laid  a  hand  soothingly  on  his  arm. 

"Now,  my  dear  Mr.  Guldmar,  don't  get  excited!  Mac  is 
right.  I  dare  say  Dyceworthy  knows  as  much  in  his  way  as 
the  ancient  Lovisa.  At  any  rate  it  isn't  his  fault  if  he  does 
not.  Because  you  see — "  Lorimer  hesitated  and  turning  to 
Errington,  "You  tell  him,  Phil!  you  know  all  about  it." 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Errington,  while  Guldmar  gazed  from 
one  to  the  other  in  speechless  amazement,  "Thelma  hasn't 
told  you  because  she  knew  how  angry  you'd  be — but  Dyce- 
worthy asked  her  to  marr}'  him.  Of  course  she  refused  him, 
and  I  doubt  if  he's  taken  his  rejection  very  resignedly." 

The  face  of  the  old  farmer  as  he  heard  these  words  was  a 
study.  Wonder,  contempt,  pride,  and  indignation  struggled 
for  the  mastery  on  his  rugged  features. 

"Asked — her — to — marry — him!"  he  repeated,  slowly.  "By 
the  sword  of  Odin!  Had  I  known  it  I  would  have  throttled 
him!"  His  eyes  blazed  and  he  clinched  his  hand.  "Throttled 
him,  lads!  I  would!  Give  me  the  chance  and  I'll  do  it  now! 
I  tell  you,  the  mere  look  of  such  a  man  as  that  is  a  desecration 
to  my  child — liar  and  hypocrite  as  he  is!  May  the  gods  con- 
found him!"  He  paused — then  suddenly  bracing  himself  up, 
added:  "I'll  away  to  Bosekop  at  once — they've  been  afraid 
of  me  there  for  no  reason — I'll  teach  them  to  be  afraid  of  me 
in  earnest!    Who'll  come  with  me?" 

All  eagerly  expressed  their  desire  to  accompany  him  with 
the  exception  of  one — Pierre  Duprez — he  had  disappeared. 

"Why,  where  has  he  gone?"  demanded  Lorimer  in  some 
surprise. 

"I  canna  tell,"  replied  Macfarlane.  "He  just  slipped  awa' 
15 


226  THELMA. 

while  ye  were  haverin'  about  Dyceworthy — he'll  may  be  join 
us  at  the  shore." 

To  the  shore  they  at  once  betook  themselves,  and  were  soon 
busied  in  unmooring  Guldmar's  own  rowing-boat,  which,  as 
it  had  not  been  used  for  some  time,  was  rather  a  tedious  busi- 
ness— moreover,  they  noted  with  concern  that  the  tide  was 
dead  against  them. 

Duprez  did  not  appear — the  truth  is,  that  he  had  taken  it 
into  his  head  to  start  off  for  Talvig  on  foot  without  waiting 
for  the  others.  He  was  fond  of  an  adventure,  and  here  was 
one  that  suited  him  precisely — to  rescue  distressed  damsels 
from  the  grasp  of  persecutors.  He  was  tired,  but  he  managed 
to  find  the  road — and  he  trudged  on  determinedly,  humming 
a  song  of  Beranger's  as  he  walked  to  keep  him  cheerful.  But 
he  had  not  gone  much  more  than  a  mile  when  he  discerned 
in  the  distance  a  carriole  approaching  him — and  approaching 
so  swiftly  that  it  appeared  to  swing  from  side  to  side  of  the  road 
at  imminent  risk  of  upsetting  altogether.  There  seemed  to 
be  one  person  in  it — an  excited  person,  too,  who  lashed  the 
stout  little  pony  and  urged  it  on  to  fresh  exertions  with  ges- 
ticulations and  cries.  That  plump  buxom  figure — that  tum- 
bled brown  hair  streaming  wildly  on  the  breeze — that  round 
rosy  face — why!  it  was  Britta!  Britta,  driAdng  all  alone,  with 
the  reckless  daring  of  a  Norwegian  peasant  girl  accustomed  to 
the  swaying.  Jolting  movement  of  the  carriole  as  well  as  the 
rough  roads  and  sharp  turnings.  Nearer  she  came  and  nearer 
— and  Duprez  hailed  her  with  a  shout  of  welcome.  She  saw 
him,  answered  his  call,  and  drove  still  faster — soon  she  came 
up  beside  him,  and  without  answering  his  amazed  questions, 
she  cried  breathlessly: 

"Jump  in — jump  in!  We  must  go  on  as  quickly  as  possible 
to  Bosekop!  Quick — quick!  Oh,  my  poor  Froken!  The  old 
villain!    Wait  till  I  get  at  him!" 

"But,  my  lee-tle  child!"  expostulated  Pierre,  climbing  up 
into  the  queer  vehicle,  "what  is  all  this?  I  am  in  astonish- 
ment— I  understand  not  at  all!  How  comes  it  that  you  are 
run  away  from  home  and  mademoiselle  also?" 

Britta  only  waited  till  he  was  safely  seated,  and  then  lashed 
the  pony  with  redoubled  force.  Away  they  clattered  at  a 
break-neck  pace,  the  Frenchman  having  much  ado  to  prevent 
himself  from  being  Jolted  out  again  on  the  road. 

"It  is  a  wicked  plot!"  she  then  exclaimed,  panting  with  ex- 


THELMA.  227 

citement — "a  wicked,  wicked  plot!  This  afternoon  JVIr.  Dyce- 
worthy's  servaiii  came  and  brouglit  Sir  Philip's  card.  It  said 
that  he  had  met  with  an  accident  and  had  been  brought  back 
to  Bosekop,  and  that  he  wished  the  Froken  to  come  to  Mm  at 
once.  Of  course,  the  darling  believed  it  all — and  she  grew  so 
pale,  so  pale!  And  she  went  straight  away  in  her  boat  all  by 
herself!    Oh,  my  dear — my  dear!" 

Britta  gasped  for  breath,  and  Duprez  soothingly  placed  an 
arm  round  her  waist,  an  action  which  the  little  maiden  seemed 
not  to  be  aware  of.  She  resumed  her  story:  "Then  the 
Froken  had  not  been  gone  so  ver}^  long,  and  I  was  watching 
for  her  in  the  garden,  when  a  woman  passed  by — a  friend  of 
my  grandmother's.  She  called  out — 'Hey,  Britta!  Do  you 
know  they  have  got  your  mistress  down  at  Talvig,  and  they'll 
burn  her  for  a  witch  before  they  sleep!'  'She  has  gone  to 
Bosekop,'  I  answered,  'so  I  knoAV  you  tell  a  lie.'  'It  is  no  lie,' 
said  the  old  woman,  'old  Lovisa  has  her  this  time  for  sure.' 
And  she  laughed  and  went  away.  Well,  I  did  not  stop  to 
think  twice  about  it — I  started  off  for  Talvig  at  once^ — I  ran 
nearly  all  the  way.  I  found  my  grandmother  alone — I  asked 
her  if  she  had  seen  the  Froken?  She  screamed  and  clapped 
her  hands  like  a  mad  woman!  she  said  that  the  Froken  was 
with  Mr.  Dyceworthy — Mr.  Dyceworthy  would  know  what  to 
do  with  her!" 

"Sapristi!"  ejaculated  Duprez.    "This  is  serious!" 

Britta  glanced  anxiously  at  him,  and  went  on.  "Then  she 
tried  to  shut  the  doors  upon  me  and  beat  me — but  I  escaped. 
Outside  I  saw  a  man  I  knew  with  his  carriole,  and  I  borrowed 
it  of  him  and  came  back  as  fast  as  I  could — but  oh!  I  am  so 
afraid — my  grandmother  said  such  dreadful  things!" 

"The  others  have  taken  a  boat  to  Bosekop,"  said  Duprez,  to 
reassure  her.    "They  may  be  there  by  now." 

Britta  shook  her  head.  "The  tide  is  against  them — no!  we 
shall  be  there  first.  But,"  and  she  looked  wistfully  at  Pierre, 
"my  grandmother  said  Mr.  Dyceworthy  had  sworn  to  ruin  the 
Froken.    What  did  she  mean,  do  you  think?" 

Duprez  did  not  answer — he  made  a  strange  grimace  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  Then  he  seized  the  whip  and  lashed 
the  pony. 

"Faster,  faster,  mo7i  cher!"  he  cried  to  that  much-astonished, 
well-intentioned  animal.  "It  is  not  a  time  to  sleep,  mafotr 
Then  to  Britta — "My  little  one,  you  shall  see.     We  shall  dis- 


228  THELMA. 

turb  the  good  clergyman  at  his  peaceful  supper — yes,  indeed! 
Be  not  afraid!" 

And  with  such  reassuring  remarks  he  beguiled  the  rest  of 
the  way,  which  to  both  of  them  seemed  unusually  long,  though 
it  was  not  much  past  nine  when  they  rattled  into  the  httle 
village  called  by  courtesy  a  town,  and  came  to  a  halt  within 
a  few  paces  of  the  minister's  residence.  Everything  was  very 
quiet — the  inhabitants  of  the  place  retired  to  rest  early — and 
the  one  principal  street  was  absolutely  deserted.  Duprez 
alighted. 

"Stay  you  here,  Britta,"  he  said  lightly,  kissing  the  hand 
that  held  the  pony's  reins,  "I  will  make  an  examination  of  the 
windows  of  the  house.  Yes — before  knocking  at  the  door! 
You  wait  with  patience.    I  will  let  you  know  everything!" 

And  with  a  sense  of  pleasurable  excitement  in  his  mind, 
he  stole  softly  along  on  tiptoe — entered  the  minister's  garden, 
fragrant  with  roses  and  mignonette,  and  then,  attracted  by  the 
sound  of  voices,  went  up  straight  to  the  parlor  window.  The 
blind  was  down,  and  he  could  see  nothing,  but  he  heard  Mr. 
Dyceworthy's  bland  persuasive  tones,  echoing  out  with  a  soft 
sonorousness,  as  though  he  were  preaching  to  some  refractory 
parishioner.     He  listened  attentively. 

"Oh,  strange,  strange!"  said  Mr.  Dyceworthy.  "Strange 
that  you  will  not  s.ee  how  graciously  the  Lord  hath  deUvered 
you  into  my  hands!  Yea — and  no  escape  is  possible!  For  lo, 
you  yourself,  Froken  Thelma,"  Duprez  started,  "you  yourself 
came  hither  unto  my  dwelling,  a  woman  all  unprotected,  to  a 
man  equally  unprotected — and  who,  though  an  humble  minis- 
ter of  saving  grace,  is  not  proof  against  the  offered  surrender 
of  your  charms!  Make  the  best  of  it,  my  sweet  girl — make 
the  best  of  it!  You  can  never  undo  what  you  have  done  to- 
night!" 

"Coward!  coward!"  and  Thelma's  rich  low  voice  caused 
Pierre  to  almost  leap  forward  from  the  place  where  he  stood 
concealed.  "You — you  made  me  come  here — you  sent  me  that 
card — ^you  dared  to  use  the  name  of  my  betrothed  husband  to 
gain  your  vile  purpose!  You  have  kept  me  locked  in  this 
room  all  these  hours — and  do  you  think  you  will  not  be  pun- 
ished? I  will  let  the  whole  village  know  of  your  treachery 
and  falsehood!" 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  laughed  gently.  "Dear  me,  dear  me!"  he 
remarked,  sweetly.    "How  pretty  we  look  in  a  passion,  to  be 


THELMA.  229 

sure!  And  we  talk  of  our  'betrothed  husband/  do  we?  Tut 
tut!  Put  that  dream  out  of  your  mind,  my  dear  girl — Sir 
Philip  Bruce-Errington  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  you  after 
your  little  escapade  of  to-night!  Your  honor  is  touched — yes, 
yes!  and  honor  is  everything  to  such  a  man  as  he.  As  for  the 
'card'  you  talk  about,  I  never  sent  a  card — not  I!"  Mr.  Dyce- 
worthy  made  this  assertion  in  a  tone  of  injured  honesty. 
"Why  should  I!  No — no!  You  came  here  of  your  own  ac- 
cord— that  is  certain,  and" — here  he  spoke  more  slowly  and 
with  a  certain  malicious  glee,  "I  shall  have  no  difficulty  in 
proving  it  to  be  so  should  the  young  man  Errington  ask  me 
for  an  explanation!  Now  you  had  better  give  me  a  kiss  and 
make  the  peace!  There's  not  a  soul  in  the  place  who  will 
believe  anything  you  say  against  me;  you,  a  reputed  witch, 
and  I,  a  minister  of  the  gospel.  For  your  father  I  care  noth- 
ing, a  poor  sinful  pagan  can  never  injure  a  servant  of  the 
Lord.  Come,  now,  let  me  have  that  kiss!  I  have  been  very 
patient — I  am  sure  I  deserve  it!" 

There  was  a  sudden  rushing  movement  in  the  room,  and  a 
slight  cry. 

"If  you  touch  me!"  cried  Thelma,  "I  will  kill  you!  I  will! 
God  will  help  me!" 

Again  Mr.  Dyceworthy  laughed  sneeringly.  "God  will  help 
you!"  he  exclaimed  as  though  in  wonder.  "As  if  God  ever 
helped  a  Roman!  Froken  Thelma,  be  sensible.  By  your 
strange  visit  to  me  to-night  you  have  ruined  your  already 
damaged  character — I  say  you  have  ruined  it — and  if  anything 
remains  to  be  said  against  you,  I  can  say  it — moreover,  I 
will!" 

A  crash  of  breaking  window-glass  followed  these  words,  and 
before  Mr.  Dyceworthy  could  realize  what  had  happened,  he 
was  pinioned  against  his  own  wall  by  an  active,  wiry,  excited 
individual,  whose  black  eyes  sparkled  with  gratified  rage,  and 
whose  clinched  fist  was  dealing  him  severe  thumps  all  over 
his  fat  body. 

"Ha,  ha!  You  will,  will  you?"  cried  Duprez,  literally 
dancing  up  against  him  and  squeezing  him  as  though  he  were 
a  jelly.  "You  will  tell  lies  in  the  service  of  le  Bon  Die^i?  No 
— not  quite,  not  yet!"  And  still  pinioning  him  with  one  hand, 
he  dragged  at  his  collar  with  the  other  till  he  succeeded,  in 
spite  of  the  minister's  unwieldy  efforts  to  defend  himself,  in 
rolling  him  down  upon  the  floor,  where  he  knelt  upon  him  in 


230  THELMA. 

triumph.  **  Voila!  Je  saisfaire  la  hoxe,  moi!"  Then  turning 
to  Thelma,  who  stood  an  amazed  spectator  of  the  scene,  her 
flushed  cheeks  and  tear-swollen  eyes  testifying  to  the  misery 
of  the  hours  she  had  passed,  he  said,  "Run,  mademoiselle,  run! 
The  little  Britta  is  outside,  she  has  a  pony-cart — she  will  drive 
you  home.  I  will  stay  here  till  Phil-eep  comes.  I  shall  enjoy 
myself!  I  will  begin — Phil-eep  will  finish!  Then  we  will 
return  to  you." 

Thelma  needed  no  more  words,  she  rushed  to  the  door, 
threw  it  open,  and  vanished  hke  a  bird  in  air.  Britta's  Joy  at 
seeing  her  was  too  great  for  more  than  an  exclamation  of  wel- 
come— and  the  carriole,  with  the  two  girls  safely  in  it,  was 
soon  on  its  rapid  way  back  to  the  farm.  Meanwhile,  Olaf 
Guldmar,  with  Errington  and  the  others,  had  just  landed  at 
Bosekop  after  a  heavy  pull  across  the  fjord,  and  they  made 
straight  for  Mr.  Dyceworthy's  house — the  bonde  working  him- 
self up  as  he  walked  into  a  positive  volcano  of  wrath.  Find- 
ing the  street-door  open  as  it  had  just  been  left  by  the  escaped 
Thelma,  they  entered,  and  on  the  threshold  of  the  parlor 
stopped  abruptly,  in  amazement,  at  the  sight  that  presented 
itself.  Two  figures  were  rolling  about  on  the  floor,  appar- 
ently in  a  close  embrace — one  large  and  cumbrous,  the  other 
small  and  slight.  Sometimes  they  shook  each  other — some- 
times they  lay  still — sometimes  they  recommenced  rolling. 
Both  were  perfectly  silent,  save  that  the  larger  personage 
seemed  to  breathe  somewhat  heavily.  Lorimer  stepped  into 
the  room  to  secure  a  better  view — then  he  broke  into  an 
irrepressible  laugh. 

"It's  Duprez,"  he  cried  for  the  benefit  of  the  others  that 
stood  at  the  door.  "By  Jove!  How  did  he  get  here,  I 
wonder?" 

Hearing  his  name,  Duprez  looked  up  from  that  portion  of 
Mr.  Dyceworthy's  form  in  which  he  had  been  burrowing  and 
smiled  radiantly. 

"Ah,  cJier  Lorimer!  Put  your  knee  here,  will  you?  So! 
that  is  well — I  will  rest  myself!"  And  he  rose,  smoothing  his 
roughened  hair  with  both  hands,  while  Lorimer  in  obedience 
to  his  request,  kept  one  knee  artistically  pressed  on  the  re- 
cumbent figure  of  the  minister.  "Ah!  and  there  is  our  Phil- 
eep,  and  Sandy,  and  Monsieur  Guldmar!  But  I  do  not  think," 
here  he  beamed  all  over,  "there  is  much  more  to  be  done! 
He  is  one  bruise,  I  assure  you!    He  will  not  preach  for  many 


THELMA.  231 

Sundays — it  is  bad  to  be  so  fat — he  will  be  so  exceedingly 
suffering!" 

Errington  could  not  forbear  smiling  at  Pierre's  equa- 
nimity. 

"But  what  has  happened!"  he  asked.    "Is  Thelma  here?" 

"She  was  here,"  answered  Duprez.  "The  religious  had  de- 
coyed her  here  by  means  of  some  false  writing — supposed  to 
be  from  you.  He  kept  her  locked  up  here  the  whole  after- 
noon. When  I  came  he  was  making  love  and  frightening  her 
— I  am  pleased  I  was  in  time.  But" — and  he  smiled  again — 
"he  is  well  beaten!" 

Sir  Philip  strode  up  to  the  fallen  Dyceworthy,  his  face 
darkening  with  Avrath. 

"Let  him  go,  Lorimer,"  he  said,  sternly — then,  as  the  rever- 
end gentleman  slowly  struggled  to  his  feet,  moaning  with 
pain,  he  demanded,  "What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself,  sir? 
Be  thankful  if  I  do  not  give  you  the  horsewhipping  you  de- 
serve, you  scoundrel !" 

"Let  me  get  at  him!"  vociferated  Guldmar  at  this  juncture, 
struggling  to  free  himself  from  the  close  grasp  of  the  prudent 
Macfarlane.  "I  have  longed  for  such  a  chance!  Let  me  get 
at  him!" 

But  Lorimer  assisted  to  restrain  him  from  springing  forward 
— and  the  old  man  chafed  and  swore  by  his  gods  in  vain. 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  meanwhile  meekly  raised  his  eyes,  and 
folded  his  hands  with  a  sort  of  pious  resignation. 

"I  have  been  set  upon  and  cruelly  abused,"  he  said,  mourn- 
fully, "and  there  is  no  part  of  me  without  ache  and  soreness!" 
He  sighed  deeply.  "But  I  am  punished  rightly  for  yielding 
unto  carnal  temptation  put  before  me  in  the  form  of  the 
maiden  who  came  hither  unto  me  with  delusive  entrance- 
ments — " 

He  stopped,  shrinking  back  in  alarm  from  the  suddenly 
raised  fist  of  the  young  baronet. 

"You'd  better  be  careful!"  remarked  Philip,  coolly,  with 
dangerously  flashing  eyes;  "there  are  four  of  us  here, 
remember!" 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  coughed,  and  resumed  an  air  of  outraged 
dignity. 

"Truly,  I  am  aware  of  it!"  he  said;  "and  it  surpriseth  me 
not  at  all  that  the  number  of  the  ungodly  outweigheth  that  of 
the  righteous!     Alas!   '^why  do  the  heathen  rage  so  furiously 


232  THELMA. 

together?'  Why,  indeed!  Except  that  'in  their  hearts  they 
imagine  a  vain  thing!'  I  pardon  you,  Sir  Philip,  I  freely  par- 
don you!  And  you  also,  sir,"  turning  gravely  to  Duprez,  who 
received  his  forgiveness  with  a  cheerful  and  delighted  bow. 
"You  can  indeed  injure — and  you  have  injured  this  poor  body 
of  mine — but  you  can  not  touch  the  soul!  No,  nor  can  you 
hinder  that  freedom  of  speech" — here  his  malignant  smile  was 
truly  diabolical — "which  is  my  glory,  and  which  shall  forever 
be  uphfted  against  all  manner  of  evil-doers,  whether  they  be 
fair  women  and  witches,  or  misguided  pagans — " 

Again  he  paused,  rather  astonished  at  Errington's  scornful 
laugh. 

"You  low  fellow!"  said  the  baronet.  "From  Yorkshire,  are 
you?  Well,  I  happen  to  know  a  good  many  people  in  that 
part  of  the  world — and  I  have  some  influence  there,  too.  Now, 
understand  me — I'll  have  you  hounded  out  of  the  place!  You 
shall  find  it  too  hot  to  hold  you — that  I  swear!  Remember! 
I'm  a  man  of  my  word !  And  if  you  dare  to  mention  the  name 
of  Miss  Guldmar  disrespectfully,  I'll  thrash  you  within  an  inch 
of  your  life!" 

Mr.  Dyceworthy  blinked  feebly,  and  drew  out  his  hand- 
kerchief. 

"I  trust.  Sir  Philip,"  he  said,  mildly,  "you  will  reconsider 
your  words!  It  would  ill  beseem  you  to  strive  to  do  me  harm 
in  the  parish  where  my  ministrations  are  welcome,  as  appeal- 
ing to  that  portion  of  the  people  who  follow  the  godly  Luther. 
Oh,  yes!" — and  he  smiled  cheerfully — "you  will  reconsider 
your  words.  In  the  meantime — I — I" — he  stammered  slightly 
— "I  apologize!  I  meant  naught  but  good  to  the  maiden — but 
I  have  been  misunderstood,  as  is  ever  the  case  with  the  ser- 
vants of  the  Lord.  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it!  I  forgive! — 
let  us  all  forgive!  I  will  even  extend  my  pardon  to  the  pagan 
yonder — " 

But  the  "pagan"  at  that  moment  broke  loose  from  the 
friendly  grasp  in  which  he  had  been  hitherto  held,  and  strode 
up  to  the  minister,  who  recoiled  like  a  beaten  cur  from  the 
look  of  that  fine  old  face  flushed  with  just  indignation,  and 
those  clear  blue  eyes  fiery  as  the  flash  of  steel. 

"Pagan,  you  call  me!"  he  cried.  "I  thank  the  gods  for  it — 
I  am  proud  of  the  title!  I  would  rather  be  the  veriest  savage 
that  ever  knelt  in  untutored  worship  to  the  great  forces  of 
Nature  than  such  a  thing  as  you — a  slinking,  unclean  animal. 


THELMA.  233 

crawling  coward-like  between  earth  and  sky,  and  daring  to 
call  itself  a  Christian!  Faugh!  Were  I  the  Christ,  I  should 
sicken  at  sight  of  you!" 

Dyceworthy  made  no  reply,  but  his  little  eyes  glittered 
evilly. 

Errington,  not  desiring  any  further  prolongation  of  the 
scene,  managed  to  draw  the  irate  bonde  away,  saying  in  a  low 
tone: 

"We've  had  enough  of  this,  sir!  Let  us  get  home  to 
Thelma!" 

"I  was  about  to  suggest  a  move,"  added  Lorimer.  "We 
are  only  wasting  time  here." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Duprez,  radiantly — "and  Monsieur  Dyce- 
worthy will  be  glad  to  be  in  bed!  He  will  be  very  stiff  to- 
morrow, I  am  sure!    Here  is  a  lady  who  will  attend  him." 

This  was  a  courteous  salute  to  the  wooden-faced  Ulrika, 
who  suddenly  confronted  them  in  the  little  passage.  She 
seemed  surprised  to  see  them,  and  spoke  in  a  monotonous 
dreamy  tone,  as  though  she  walked  in  her  sleep. 

"The  girl  has  gone?"  she  asked,  slowly. 

Duprez  nodded  briskly.  "She  has  gone!  And  let  me  tell 
you,  madame,  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  you,  she  would  not 
have  come  here  at  all.    You  took  that  card  to  her?" 

Ulrika  frowned.  "I  was  compelled,"  she  said.  "She  made 
me  take  it.  I  promised."  She  turned  her  dull  eyes  slowly  on 
Guldmar.  "It  was  Lovisa's  fault.  Ask  Lovisa  about  it." 
She  paused,  and  moistened  her  dry  lips  with  her  tongue. 
"Where  is  your  crazy  lad?"  she  asked,  almost  anxiously.  "Did 
he  come  with  you?" 

"He  is  dead!"  answered  Guldmar,  with  grave  coldness. 

"Dead!"  And  to  their  utter  amazement,  she  threw  up  her 
arms  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  wild  laughter.  "Dead!  Thank 
God!  Thank  God!  Dead!  And  through  no  fault  of  mine! 
The  Lord  be  praised!  He  was  only  fit  for  death — never  mind 
how  he  died — it  is  enough  that  he  is  dead — dead!  I  shall  see 
him  no  more — he  can  not  curse  me  again! — the  Lord  be 
thanked  for  all  His  mercies!" 

And  her  laughter  ceased — she  threw  her  apron  over  her  head 
and  broke  into  a  passion  of  weeping. 

"The  woman  must  be  crazy!"  exclaimed  the  bonde,  thor- 
oughly mystified — then  placing  his  arm  through  Errington's, 
he  said  impatiently:    "You're  right,  my  lad!      We've  had 


234  THBL.MA. 

enough  of  this.    Let  us  shake  the  dust  of  this  accursed  place 
off  our  feet  and  get  home.    I'm  tired  out." 

They  left  the  ministei-'s  dwelling  and  made  straight  for  the 
shore,  and  were  soon  well  on  their  Journey  hack  to  the  farm 
across  the  fjord.  This  time  the  tide  was  with  them — the 
evening  was  magnificent,  and  the  coolness  of  the  hreeze,  the 
fresh  lapping  of  the  water  against  the  boat,  and  the  brilKant 
tranquillity  of  the  landscape  soon  calmed  their  over-excited 
feehngs.  Thelma  was  waiting  for  them  under  the  porch  as 
usual,  looking  a  trifle  paler  than  her  wont,  after  all  the  worry 
and  fright  and  suspense  she  had  undergone — ^but  the  caresses 
of  her  father  and  lover  soon  brought  back  the  rosy  warmth  on 
her  fair  face  and  restored  the  luster  to  her  eyes.  Nothing  was 
said  about  Sigurd's  fate  just  then— when  she  asked  for  her 
faithful  servitor,  she  was  told  he  had  "gone  wandering  as 
usual,"  and  it  was  not  till  Errington  and  his  friends  returned 
to  their  yacht  that  old  Guldmar,  left  alone  with  his  daughter, 
broke  the  sad  news  to  her  very  gently.  But  the  shock,  so 
unexpected  and  terrible,  was  almost  too  much  for  her  already 
overwrought  nerves — find  such  tears  were  shed  for  Sigurd  as 
Sigurd  himself  might  have  noted  with  gratitude.  Sigurd — the 
loving,  devoted  Sigurd — gone  forever!  Sigurd — her  play- 
mate— her  servant — her  worshiper — dead!  Ah,  how  tenderly 
she  mourned  him! — how  regretfully  she  thought  of  his  wild 
words!  "Mistress,  you  are  "killing  poor  Sigurd!"  Wistfully 
she  wondered  if,  in  her  absorbing  love  for  Phihp,  she  had 
neglected  the  poor  crazed  lad — his  face,  in  all  its  pale  piteous 
appeal,  haunted  her,  and  her  grief  for  his  loss  was  the  greatest 
she  had  ever  known  since  the  day  on  which  she  had  seen  her 
mother  sink  into  the  last  long  sleep.  Britta,  too,  wept  and 
would  not  be  comforted — she  had  been  fond  of  Sigurd  in  her 
own  impetuous  little  way — and  it  was  some  time  before  either 
she  or  her  mistress  could  calm  themselves  sufficiently  to  retire 
to  rest.  And  long  after  Thelma  was  sleeping,  with  tears  still 
wet  on  her  cheeks,  her  father  sat  alone  under  his  porch,  lost 
in  melancholy  meditation.  ISTow  and  then  he  ruffled  his 
white  hair  impatiently  with  his  hand — his  daughter's  adven- 
ture in  Mr.  Dyceworthy's  house  had  vexed  his  proud  spirit. 
He  knew  well  enough  that  the  minister's  apology  meant  noth- 
ing— that  the  whole  callage  would  be  set  talking  against 
Thelma,  more  even  than  before — that  there  was  no  possibility 
of  preventing  scandal  so  long  as  Dyceworthy  was  there  to 


THELMA.  235 

start  it.  He  thought  and  thought  aiul  puzzled  himself  with 
probabilities — till  at  last,  when  he  finally  rose  to  enter  his 
dwelling  for  the  night,  he  muttered,  half  aloud:  "If  it  must 
be,  it  must!  And  the  sooner  the  better  now,  I  think,  for  the 
child's  sake." 

The  next  morning  Sir  Philip  arrived  unusually  early — and 
remained  shut  up  with  the  bonde  in  private  conversation  for 
more  than  an  hour.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time  Thelma 
was  called  and  taken  into  their  confidence.  The  result  of 
their  mysterious  discussion  was  not  immediately  evident — 
though  for  the  next  few  days,  the  farm-house  lost  its  former 
tranquillity,  and  became  a  scene  of  bustle  and  excitement. 
j\Ioreover,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  Bosekop  folk,  the  sailing 
brig  known  as  the  "Valkyrie"  belonging  to  Olaf  Guldmar, 
which  had  been  hauled  up  high  and  dry  on  the  shore  for  many 
months,  was  suddenly  seen  afloat  on  the  fjord,  and  Valdemar 
Svensen,  Errington's  pilot,  appeared  to  be  busily  engaged 
upon  her  decks,  putting  everything  in  ship-shape  order,  it 
was  no  use  asking  him  any  questions — he  was  not  the  man  to 
gratify  impertinent  curiosity.  By  and  by  a  rumor  got  about 
in  the  village — Lovisa  had  gained  her  point  in  one  particular 
— the  Guldmars  were  going  away — going  to  leave  the  Alten 
Fjord! 

At  first  the  report  was  received  with  incredulity — ^but  gained 
ground  as  people  began  to  notice  that  several  packages  were 
being  taken  in  boats  from  the  farm-house  to  both  the  "Eulalie" 
and  the  "Valkyrie."  These  preparations  excited  a  great  deal 
of  interest  and  inquisitiveness — but  no  one  dared  ask  for  in- 
formation as  to  what  was  about  to  happen.  The  Eev.  Mr. 
Dyceworthy  was  confined  to  his  bed  "from  a  severe  cold" — as 
he  said,  and  therefore  was  unable  to  perform  his  favorite  mis- 
sion of  spy — so  that  when,  one  brilliant  morning,  Bosekop  was 
st"artled  by  the  steam-whistle  of  the  "Eulalie"  blowing  furi- 
ously, and  echoing  far  and  wide  across  the  surrounding  rocky 
islands,  several  of  the  lounging  inhabitants  paused  on  the 
shore  or  sauntered  down  to  the  rickety  pier  to  see  what  was 
the  cause  of  the  clamor.  Even  the  long-suftering  minister 
crawled  out  of  bed  and  applied  his  fat,  meek  visage  to  his 
window,  from  whence  he  could  command  an  almost  uninter- 
rupted view  of  the  glittering  water.  Great  was  his  amaze- 
ment and  discomfiture  to  see  the  magnificent  yacht  moving 
majestically  out  of  the  fjord,  with  Guldmar's  brig  in  tow  be- 


236  THELMA. 

hind  her,  and  the  English  flag  fluttering  gayly  from  her  mid- 
dle mast,  as  she  courtesied  her  farewell  to  the  dark  mountains 
and  glided  swiftly  over  the  little  hissing  waves.  Had  Mr. 
Dyceworthy  been  possessed  of  a  field-glass  he  might  have  been 
able  to  discern  on  her  deck  the  figure  of  a  tall,  fair  girl,  who, 
drawing  her  crimson  hood  over  her  rich  hair,  stood  gazing  with 
wistful,  dreamy  blue  eyes  at  the  fast-receding  shores  of  the 
Alten  Fjord — eyes  that  smiled  and  yet  were  tearful. 

"Are  you  sorry,  Thelma?"  asked  Errington,  gently,  as  he 
passed  one  arm  tenderly  round  her.  "Sori-y  to  trust  your  life 
to  me?" 

She  laid  her  little  hand  in  playful  reproach  against  his  lips. 

"Sorry!  you  foolish  boy!  I  am  glad  and  grateful!  But  it 
is  saying  good-bye  to  one's  old  life,  is  it  not?  The  dear  old 
home! — and  poor  Sigurd!" 

Her  voice  trembled,  and  bright  tears  fell. 

"Sigurd  is  happy,"  said  Errington,  gravely,  taking  the  hand 
that  caressed  him  and  reverently  kissing  it.  "Believe  me, 
love — if  he  had  lived,  some  cruel  misery  might  have  befallen 
him — it  is  better  as  it  is!" 

Thelma  did  not  answer  for  a  minute  or  two — then  she  said, 
suddenly: 

"Philip,  do  you  remember  where  I  saw  you  first?" 

"Perfectly!"  he  answered,  looking  fondly  into  the  sweet 
upturned  face.  "Outside  a  wonderful  cavern,  which  I  after- 
ward explored." 

She  started  and  seemed  surprised.  "You  went  inside? — you 
saw — ?" 

"Everything!" — and  Philip  related  his  adventure  of  that 
morning  and  his  first  interview  with  Sigurd.  She  listened 
attentively — then  she  whispered  softly: 

"My  mother  sleeps  there,  you  know — yesterday  I  went  to 
take  her  some  flowers  for  the  last  time.  Father  came  with  me 
— we  asked  her  blessing.  And  I  think  she  will  give  it,  Philip 
— she  must  know  how  good  you  are  and  how  happy  I  am." 

He  stroked  her  silky  hair  tenderly  and  was  silent.  The 
"Eulalie"  had  reached  the  outward  bend  of  the  Alten  Fjord 
and  the  station  of  Bosekop  was  rapidly  disappearing.  Olaf 
Guldmar  and  the  others  came  on  deck  to  take  their  last  look 
of  it. 

"I  shall  see  the  old  place  again,  I  doubt  not,  long  before  you 
do,  Thelma,  child,"  said  the  stout  old  bonde,  viewing,  with  a 


THELMA.  237 

keen  fond  glance  the  stretch  of  the  vanishing  scenery. 
"Though  when  once  you  are  safe  married  at  Christiania, 
Valdemar  Svensen  and  I  will  have  a  fine  toss  on  the  seas  in 
the  'Valkyrie' — and  I  shall  grow  young  again  in  the  storm  and 
drift  of  the  foam  and  the  dark  wild  waves!  Yes — a  wander- 
ing life  suits  me — and  I  am  not  sorry  to  have  a  taste  of  it  once 
more.  There's  nothing  like  it — nothing  like  a  broad  ocean 
and  a  sweeping  wind!'' 

And  he  lifted  Ms  cap  and  drew  himself  erect,  inhaling  the 
air  like  an  old  warrior  scenting  battle.  The  others  listened, 
amused  at  his  enthusiasm — and,  meanwhile,  the  Alten  Fjord 
altogether  disappeared,  and  the  "Eulahe"  was  soon  plunging 
in  a  rougher  sea.  They  were  bound  for  Christiania,  where  it 
was  decided  Thelma's  marriage  should  at  once  take  place' — 
after  which  Sir  Philip  would  leave  his  yacht  at  the  disposal  of 
his  friends,  for  them  to  return  in  it  to  England.  He  himself 
intended  to  start  directly  for  Germany  with  his  bride,  a  trip 
in  which  Britta  was  to  accompany  them  as  Thelma's  maid. 
Olaf  Guldmar,  as  he  had  just  stated,  purposed  making  a  voy- 
age in  the  "Valkyrie,"  as  soon  as  he  should  get  her  properly 
manned  and  fitted,  which  he  meant  to  do  at  Christiania. 

Such  were  their  plans,  and  meanwhile  they  were  all  together 
on  the  "Eulalie" — a  happy  and  sociable  party — Errington 
having  resigned  his  cabin  to  the  use  of  his  fair  betrothed  and 
her  httle  maid,  whose  delight  at  the  novel  change  in  her  life 
and  her  escape  from  the  persecution  of  her  grandmother  was 
extreme.  Onward  they  sailed — past  the  grand  Lofoden  Is- 
lands and  all  the  magnificent  scenery  extending  thence  to 
Christiansund,  while  the  inhabitants  of  Bosekop  looked  in  vain 
for  their  return  to  the  Alten  Fjord. 

The  short  summer  there  was  beginning  to  draw  to  a  close — 
some  of  the  birds  took  their  departure  from  the  coast — the 
dull  routine  of  the  place  went  on  as  usual,  rendered  even 
duller  by  the  absence  of  the  "witch"  element  of  discord — a 
circumstance  that  had  kept  the  superstitious  villagers  more 
or  less  on  a  lively  tension  of  religious  and  resentful  excite- 
ment— and  by  and  by,  the  rightful  minister  of  Bosekop  came 
back  to  his  duties  and  released  the  Eev.  Charles  Dyceworthy, 
who  straightway  returned  to  his  loving  flock  in  Yorkshire.  It 
was  diflicult  to  ascertain  whether  the  aged  Lovisa  was  satis- 
fied or  wrathful  at  the  departure  of  the  Guldmars  with  her 
grand-daughter  Britta  in  their  company — she  kept  herself 


238  THELMA. 

almost  buried  in  her  hut  at  Talvig,  and  saw  no  one  but  TJlrika, 
who  seemed  to  grow  more  respectably  staid  than  ever,  and 
who,  as  a  prominent  member  of  the  Lutheran  congregation, 
distinguished  herself  greatly  by  her  godly  bearing  and  uncom- 
promising gloom. 

Little  by  little,  the  gossips  ceased  to  talk  about  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  "white  witch"  and  her  father — little  by  lit- 
tle they  ceased  to  speculate  as  to  whether  the  rich  Englishman, 
Sir  Philip  Errington,  really  meant  to  marry  her — a  consum- 
mation of  things  which  none  of  them  seemed  to  think  likely — 
the  absence  of  their  hated  neighbors  was  felt  by  them  as  a 
relief,  while  the  rumored  fate  of  the  crazy  Sigurd  was  of 
course  looked  upon  as  evidence  of  fresh  crime  on  the  part  of 
the  "pagan,"  who  was  accused  of  having,  in  some  way  or 
other,  caused  the  unfortunate  lad's  death.  And  the  old  farm- 
house on  the  pine-covered  knoll  was  shut  up  and  silent — its 
doors  and  windows  safely  barred  against  the  wind  and  rain — 
and  only  the  doves,  left  to  forage  for  themselves,  crooned 
upon  its  roof  all  day,  or  strutting  on  the  deserted  paths,  ruffled 
their  plumage  in  melancholy  meditation,  as  though  wondering 
at  the  absence  of  the  fair  ruling  spirit  of  the  place,  whose 
smile  had  been  brighter  than  the  sunshine.  The  villagers 
avoided  it  as  though  it  were  haunted — the  roses  drooped  and 
died  untended — and  by  degrees  the  old  homestead  grew  to 
look  like  a  quaint  little  picture  of  forgotten  joys,  with  its  de- 
serted porch  and  fading  flowers. 

Meanwhile  a  thrill  of  amazement,  incredulity,  disappoint- 
ment, indignation,  and  horror,  rushed  like  a  violent  electric 
shock  through  the  upper  circles  of  London  society,  arousing 
the  deepest  disgust  in  the  breasts  of  match-making  matrons, 
and  seriously  ruffling  the  pretty  feathers  of  certain  bird-like 
beauties  who  had  just  begun  to  try  their  wings,  and  who  "had 
expectations."  The  cause  of  the  sensation  was  very  simple. 
It  was  an  announcement  in  the  "Times" — ^under  the  head  of 
"Marriages" — and  ran  as  follows: 

"At  the  English  Consulate,  Christiania,  Sir  Philip  Bruce- 
Errington,  Bart.,  to  Thelma,  only  daughter  of  Olaf  Guldmar, 
Bonde,  of  the  Alten  Fjord,  Korway.    No  cards." 


THELMA.  239 


^ook:  II. 

THE  LAND  OF  MOCKERY. 


CHAPTER  I. 


There's  nothing  serious  in  mortality: 
All  is  but  toys. 

Macbeth. 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle,  deliberately,  laying 
down  the  "Morning  Post"  beside  her  breakfast-cup,  "I  think 
his  conduct  is  perfectly  disgraceful!" 

Mr.  Rush-Marvelle,  a  lean  gentleman  with  a  sallow,  clean- 
shaven face  and  an  apologetic,  almost  frightened  manner, 
looked  up  hastily. 

"Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  my  dear?"  he  inquired. 

"Why,  of  that  wretched  young  man,  Bruce-Errington!  He 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself!"  And  Mrs.  Marvelle  fixed 
her  glasses  more  firmly  on  her  small  nose,  and  regarded  her 
husband  almost  reproachfully.  "Don't  tell  me,  Montague, 
that  you've  forgotten  that  scandal  about  him!  He  went  off 
last  year,  in  the  middle  of  the  season,  to  Norway,  in  his  yacht 
with  three  of  the  very  fastest  fellows  he  could  pick  out  from 
his  acquaintance — regular  reprobates,  so  I'm  told — and  after 
leading  tbe  most  awful  life  out  there,  making  love  to  all  the 
peasant  girls  in  the  place,  he  married  one  of  them — a  common 
farmer's  daughter.  Don't  you  remember?  We  saw  the  an- 
nouncement of  his  marriage  in  the  'Times.'  " 


240  THELMA. 


«/ 


'Ah,  yes,  yes!"  And  Mr.  Eush-Marvelle  smiled  a  propitia- 
tory smile,  intended  to  soothe  the  evidently  irritated  feelings 
of  his  better  half,  of  whom  he  stood  always  in  awe.  "Of 
course,  of  course!  A  very  sad  7nesallia7ice.  Yes,  yes!  Poor 
fellow!  And  is  there  fresh  news  of  him?" 

"Eead  that" — and  the  lady  handed  the  "Morning  Post" 
across  the  table,  indicating  by  a  dent  of  her  polished  finger-nail 
the  paragraph  that  had  offended  her  sense  of  social  dignity. 
Mr.  Marvelle  read  it  with  almost  laborious  care — though  it 
was  remarkably  short  and  easy  of  comprehension. 

"Sir  Philip  and  Lady  Bruce-Errington  have  arrived  at  their 
house  in  Prince's  Gate  from  Errington  Manor." 

"Well,  my  dear?"  he  inquired,  with  a  furtive  and  anxious 
glance  at  his  wife.  "1  suppose — er — it — er — ^it  was  to  be 
expected?" 

"No,  it  was  not  to  be  expected,"  said  Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle, 
rearing  her  head  and  heaving  her  ample  bosom  to  and  fro  in 
rather  a  tumultuous  manner.  "Of  course  it  was  to  be  ex- 
pected that  Bruce-Errington  would  behave  like  a  fool — his 
father  was  a  fool  before  him.  But  I  say  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  he  would  outrage  society  by  bringing  that  com- 
mon wife  of  his  to  London,  and  expecting  us  to  receive  her! 
The  thing  is  perfectly  scandalous!  He  has  had  the  decency 
to  keep  away  from  town  ever  since  his  marriage — part  of  the 
time  he  has  stayed  abroad,  and  since  January  he  has  been  at 
his  place  in  Warwickshire — and  this  time — observe  this!"  and 
Mrs.  Marvelle  looked  most  impressive — "not  a  soul  has  been 
invited  to  the  manor — not  a  living  soul!  The  house  used  to 
be  full  of  people  during  the  winter  season — of  course,  now,  he 
dare  not  ask  anybody  lest  they  should  be  shocked  at  his  wife's 
ignorance.  That's  as  clear  as  daylight!  And  now  he  has  the 
impudence  to  actually  bring  her  here — into  society!  Good 
heavens!  He  must  be  mad!  He  will  be  laughed  at  wherever 
he  goes!" 

Mr.  Eush-Marvelle  scratched  his  bony  chin  perplexedly. 

"It  makes  it  a  little  awkward  for— for  you,"  he  remarked, 
feelingly. 

"Awkward!  It  is  abominable!"  And  Mrs.  Marvelle  arose 
from  her  chair  and  shook  out  the  voluminous  train  of  her 
silken  breakfast-gown,  an  elaborate  combination  of  crimson 
with  gray  chinchilla  fur.  "I  shall  have  to  call  on  the  creature 
—just  imagine  it!    It  is  most  unfortunate  for  me  that  I  hap- 


THELMA.  241 

pen  to  be  one  of  Bruce-Errington's  oldest  friends— otherwise  I 
might  have  passed  him  over  in  some  way — as  it  is  I  can't. 
But  fancy  having  to  meet  a  great  coarse  peasant  woman,  who, 
I'm  certain,  will  only  be  able  to  talk  about  fish  and  whale-oil! 
It  is  really  quite  dreadful!" 

Mr.  Ptush-Marvelle  permitted  himself  to  smile  faintly. 

"Let  us  hope  she  will  not  turn  out  so  badly,"  he  said,  sooth- 
ingly— "but,  you  know,  if  she  proves  to  be — er — a  common 
person  of — er — a  very  uneducated  type — you  can  always  let 
her  drop  gently — quite  gently!" 

And  he  waved  his  skinny  hand  with  an  explanatory  flourish. 

But  Mrs.  Marvelle  did  not  accept  his  suggestion  in  good 
part. 

"You  know  nothing  about  it,"  she  said,  somewhat  testily. 
"Keep  to  your  own  business,  Montague,  such  as  it  is.  The 
law  suits  your  particular  form  of  brain — society  does  not. 
You  would  never  be  in  society  at  all  if  it  were  not  for  me — 
now  you  know  you  wouldn't!" 

"My  love,"  said  Mr.  Marvelle,  with  a  look  of  meek  admira- 
tion at  his  wife's  majestic  proportions,  "I  am  aware  of  it! 
I  always  do  you  justice.    You  are  a  remarkable  woman!" 

Mrs.  Marvelle  smiled,  somewhat  mollified.  "Y^ou  see,"  she 
then  condescended  to  explain — "the  whole  thing  is  so  ex- 
tremely disappointing  to  me.  I  wanted  Marcia  Van  Clupp  to 
go  in  for  the  Errington  stakes — it  would  have  been  such  an 
excellent  match — money  on  both  sides.  And  Marcia  would 
have  been  just  the  girl  to  look  after  that  place  down  in  War- 
wickshire— the  hoMse  is  going  to  rack  and  ruin,  in  my  opin- 
ion." 

"Ah,  yes!"  agreed  her  husband,  mildly.  "Van  Clupp  is  a 
fine  girl — a  very  fine  girl!  No  end  of  'go'  in  her.  And  so 
Errington  Manor  needs  a  good  deal  of  repairing,  perhaps?" 
This  query  was  put  by  Mr.  Marvelle,  with  his  head  very  much 
on  one  side,  and  his  bilious  eyes  blinking  drowsily. 

"I  don't  know  about  repairs,"  replied  Mrs.  Marvelle.  "It  is 
a  magnificent  place,  and  certainly  the  grounds  are  ravishing. 
But  one  of  the  best  rooms  in  the  house  is  the  former  Lady 
Errington's  boudoir — it  is  full  of  old-fashioned  dirty  furniture, 
and  Bruce-Errington  won't  have  it  touched — he  will  insist  on 
keeping  it  as  his  mother  left  it.  Now  that  is  ridiculous — 
perfectly  morbid!  It's  just  the  same  thing  with  his  father's 
library — he  won't  have  that  touched  either — and  the  ceiling 

16 


242  THELMA. 

wants  fresh  paint,  and  the  windows  want  new  curtains — and 
all  sorts  of  things  ought  to  be  done.  Marcia  would  have  man- 
aged all  that  splendidly — she'd  have  had  everything  new 
throughout — Americans  are  so  quick,  and  there's  no  nonsensi- 
cal antiquated  sentiment  about  Marcia." 

"She  might  even  have  had  new  pictures  and  done  away  with 
the  old  ones,"  observed  Mr.  Marvelle,  with  a  feeble  attempt 
at  satire.  His  wife  darted  a  keen  look  at  him,  but  smiled  a 
little  too.    She  was  without  a  sense  of  humor. 

"Nonsense,  Montague!  She  knows  the  value  of  works  of 
art  better  than  many  a  so-called  connoisseur.  I  won't  have 
you  make  fun  of  her.  Poor  girl!  She  did  speculate  on  Bruce- 
Errington — you  know  he  was  very  attentive  to  her  at  that 
ball  I  gave  just  before  he  went  off  to  Norway," 

"He  certainly  seemed  rather  amused  by  her,"  said  Mr.  Mar- 
velle. "Did  she  take  it  to  heart  when  she  heard  he  was 
married?" 

"I  should  think  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Marvelle,  loftily.  "She 
had  too  much  sense.  She  merely  said:  'All  right!  I  must 
stick  to  Masherville.' " 

Mr.  Marvelle  nodded  blandly.  "Admirable — admirable!" 
he  murmured,  with  a  soft  little  laugh.  "A  very  clever  girl — a 
very  bright  creature!  And  really  there  are  worse  fellows  than 
Masherville!    The  title  is  old." 

"Yes,  the  title  is  all  very  well,"  retorted  his  wife — "but 
there's  no  money — or  at  least  very  little." 

"Marcia  has  sufficient  to  cover  any  deficit?"  suggested  Mr. 
Marvelle,  in  a  tone  of  meek  inquiry. 

"An  American  woman  never  has  sufficient,"  declared  Mrs. 
Marvelle.  "You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  And  poor  dear 
Mrs.  Van  Clupp  has  so  set  her  heart  on  a  really  brilliant 
match  for  her  girl — and  I  had  positively  promised  she  should 
have  Bruce-Errington.  It  is  really  too  bad!"  And  Mrs.  Mar- 
velle paced  the  room  with  a  stately,  sweeping  movement, 
pausing  every  now  and  then  to  glance  at  herself  approvingly 
in  the  mirror  above  the  chimney-piece,  while  her  husband 
resumed  his  perusal  of  the  "Times."  By  and  by  she  said, 
abruptly: 

"Montague!" 

Mr.  Marvelle  dropped  his  paper  with  an  alarmed  air. 

"My  dear!" 

"I  shall  go  to  Clara  Winsleigh  this  morning — and  see  what 


THELMA.  243 

she  means  to  do  in  the  matter.  Poor  Clara!  She  must  be 
disgusted  at  the  whole  affair!" 

"She  had  rather  a  liking  for  Errington,  hadn't  she?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Marvelle,  folding  up  the  "Times"  in  a  neat  parcel, 
preparatory  to  taking  it  with  liim  in  order  to  read  it  in  peace 
on  his  way  to  the  Law  Courts. 

"Lildug?  Well" — and  Mrs.  Marvelle,  looking  at  herself  once 
more  in  the  glass,  carefully  arranged  the  ruffle  of  Honiton  lace 
about  her  massive  throat — "it  was  a  little  more  than  liking — 
though,  of  course,  her  feelings  were  perfectly  proper  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing — at  least,  1  suppose  they  were!  She  had  a 
great  friendship  for  him — one  of  those  emotional,  perfectly 
spiritual  and  innocent  attachments,  I  believe,  which  are  so 
rare  in  this  wicked  world."  Mrs.  Marvelle  sighed,  then  sud- 
denly becoming  practical  again,  she  continued:  "Yes,  I  shall 
go  there  and  stop  to  luncheon,  and  talk  this  thing  over.  Then 
I'll  drive  on  to  the  Van  Clupps,  and  bring  Marcia  home  to 
dinner.    I  suppose  you  don't  object?" 

"Object!"  Mr.  Marvelle  made  a  deprecatory  gesture,  and 
raised  his  eyes  in  wonder.  As  if  he  dared  object  to  anything 
whatsoever  that  his  wife  desired! 

She  smiled  graciously  as  he  approached  and  respectfully 
kissed  her  smooth  cool  cheek  before  taking  his  departure  for 
his  daily  work  as  a  lawyer  in  the  city,  and  when  he  was  gone, 
she  betook  herself  to  her  own  small  boudoir,  where  she  busied 
herself  for  more  than  an  hour  in  writing  letters  and  answering 
invitations. 

She  was,  in  her  own  line,  a  person  of  importance.  She 
made  it  her  business  to  know  everything  and  everybody — she 
was  fond  of  meddling  with  other  people's  domestic  concerns, 
and  she  had  a  finger  in  every  family  pie.  She  was,  moreover, 
a  regular  match-maker — fond  of  taking  young  ladies  under 
her  maternal  wing,  and  "introducing"  them  to  the  proper 
quarters,  and  when,  as  was  often  the  case,  a  distinguished 
American  of  many  dollars  but  no  influence  offered  her  three 
or  four  hundred  guineas  for  chaperoning  his  daughter  into 
English  society  and  marrying  her  well,  Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle 
pocketed  the  douceur  quite  gracefully,  and  did  her  best  for  the 
girl.  She  was  a  good-looking  woman,  tall,  portly,  and  with 
an  air  of  distinction  about  her,  though  her  features  were  by 
no  means  strikhig,  and  the  smallness  of  her  nose  was  out  of 
all  proportion  to  the  majesty  of  her  form — but  she  had  a  very 


244  THELMA. 

charming  smile,  and  a  pleasant,  taking  manner,  and  she  was 
universally  admired  in  that  particular  "set"  wherein  she 
moved.  Girls  adored  her,  and  wrote  her  gushing  letters  full 
of  the  most  dulcet  flatteries — married  ladies  on  the  verge  of  a 
scandal  came  to  her  to  help  them  out  of  their  difficulties — old 
dowagers  troubled  with  rheumatism  or  refractory  daughters 
poured  their  troubles  into  her  sympathizing  ears — in  short, 
her  hands  were  full  of  other  people's  business  to  such  an  ex- 
tent that  she  had  scarcely  any  leisure  to  attend  to  her  own. 
Mr.  Eush-Marvelle — but  why  describe  this  gentleman  at  all? 
He  was  a  mere  nonentity — known  simply  as  the  husband  of 
Mrs.  Rash-Marvelle.  He  knew  he  was  nobody — and,  unlike 
many  men  placed  in  a  similar  position,  he  was  satisfied  with 
his  lot.  He  admired  his  wife  intensely,  and  never  failed  to 
flatter  her  vanity  to  the  utmost  excess,  so  that,  on  the  whole, 
they  were  excellent  friends,  and  agreed  much  better  than 
most  married  people. 

It  was  about  twelve  o'clock  in  the  day  when  Mrs.  Eush- 
Marvelle's  neat  little  brougham  and  pair  stopped  at  Lord 
Winsleigh's  great  house  in  Park  Lane.  A  gorgeous  flunky 
threw  open  the  door  with  a  virtuously  severe  expression  on 
his  breakfast-flushed  countenance — an  expression  which  re- 
laxed into  a  smile  of  condescension  on  seeing  who  the  visitor 
was. 

"I  suppose  Lady  Winsleigh  is  at  home,  Briggs?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Marvelle,  with  the  air  of  one  familiar  with  the  ways  of 
the  household. 

"Yes'm,"  replied  Briggs,  slowly,  taking  in  the  "style"  of 
Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle's  bonnet,  and  mentally  calculating  its 
cost.    "Her  ladyship  is  in  the  boo-dwar." 

"I'll  go  there,"  said  Mrs.  Marvelle,  stepping  into  the  hall, 
and  beginning  to  walk  across  it  in  her  own  important  and  self- 
assertive  manner.    "You  needn't  announce  me." 

Briggs  closed  the  street-door,  settled  his  powdered  wig,  and 
looked  after  her  meditatively.  Then  he  shut  up  one  eye  in  a 
sufficiently  laborious  manner  and  grinned.  After  this,  he  re- 
tired slowly  to  a  small  anteroom,  where  he  found  the  "World" 
with  its  leaves  uncut.  Taking  up  his  master's  ivory  paper- 
knife,  he  proceeded  to  remedy  this  slight  inconvenience — and, 
yawning  heavily,  he  seated  himself  in  a  velvet  arm-chair,  and 
was  soon  absorbed  in  perusing  the  pages  of  the  journal  in 
question. 


THELMA.  245 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Marvelle,  in  her  way  across  the  great  hall 
to  the  "boo-dwar"  had  been  interrupted  and  nearly  knocked 
down  by  the  playful  embrace  of  a  handsome  boy,  who  sprung 
out  upon  her  suddenly  with  a  shout  of  laughter— a  boy  of 
about  twelve  years  old,  with  frank,  bright  blue  eyes  and  clus- 
tering dark  curls. 

"Halloo,  Mimsey!"  cried  this  young  gentleman.  "Here 
you  are  again!  Do  you  want  to  see  papa?  Papa's  in  there!" 
—pointing  to  the  door  from  which  he  had  emerged.  "He's 
correcting  my  Latin  exercise.  Five  good  marks  to-day,  and 
I'm  going  to  the  circus  this  afternoon!    Isn't  it  Jolly?" 

"Dear  me,  Ernest!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Marvelle,  half  crossly, 
yet  with  an  indulgent  smile — "I  wish  you  would  not  be  so 
boisterous!    You've  nearly  knocked  my  bonnet  off." 

"No,  I  haven't,"  laughed  Ernest.  "It's  as  straight  as — wait 
a  bit!"  And  waving  a  lead  pencil  in  the  air,  he  drew  an  im- 
aginary stroke  with  it.  "The  middle  feather  is  bobbing  up 
and  down  just  on  a  line  with  your  nose — it  couldn't  be  better!" 

"There,  go  along,  you  silly  boy!"  said  Mrs.  Marvelle, 
amused  in  spite  of  herself.  "Get  back  to  your  lessons. 
There'll  be  no  circus  for  you  if  you  don't  behave  properly! 
I'm  going  to  see  your  mother." 

"Mamma's  reading,"  announced  Ernest.  "Mudie's  cart  has 
just  been  and  brought  a  lot  of  new  novels.  Mamma  wants  to 
finish  them  all  before  night.  I  say,  are  you  going  to  stop  to 
lunch?" 

"Ernest,  why  are  you  making  such  a  noise  in  the  passage?" 
said  a  gentle,  grave  voice  at  this  juncture.  "I  am  waiting  for 
you,  you  know.  You  haven't  finished  your  work  yet.  Ah, 
Mrs.  Marvelle!    How  do  you  do?" 

And  Lord  Winsleigh  came  forward  and  shook  hands.  "You 
will  find  her  ladyship  in,  I  believe.  She  will  be  delighted  to 
see  you.  This  young  scapegrace" — here  he  caressed  his  son's 
clustering  curls  tenderly — "has  not  yet  done  with  his  lessons 
— the  idea  of  the  circus  to-day  seems  to  have  turned  his  head!" 

"Papa,  you  promised  you'd  let  me  off  Virgil  this  morning!" 
cried  Ernest,  slipping  his  arm  coaxingly  through  his  father's. 

Lord  Winsleigh  smiled.  Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle  shook  her 
head  with  a  sort  of  mild  reproachfulness. 

"He  really  ought  to  go  to  school,"  she  said,  feigning  sever- 
ity. "You  will  find  him  too  much  for  you,  Winsleigh,  in  a 
little  while." 


246  THELMA. 

"I  think  not,"  replied  Lord  Winsleigh,  though  an  anxious 
look  troubled  for  an  instant  the  calm  of  his  deep-set  gray  eyes. 
"We  get  on  very  well  together,  don't  we,  Ernest?"  The  boy 
glanced  up  fondly  at  his  father's  face  and  nodded  emphatically. 
"At  a  public  school,  you  see,  the  boys  are  educated  on  hard 
and  fast  lines — all  ground  down  to  one  pattern — there's  no 
chance  of  any  originahty  possible.  But  don't  let  me  detain 
you,  Mrs.  Marvelle — you  have  no  doubt  much  to  say  to  Lady 
Winsleigh.  Come,  Ernest!  If  I  let  you  off  Virgil  you  must 
do  the  rest  of  your  work  thoroughly. 

And  with  a  courteous  salute  the  grave,  kindly  faced  noble- 
man re-entered  his  library,  his  young  son  clinging  to  his  arm 
and  pouring  forth  boyish  confidences  which  seemingly  re- 
ceived instant  attention  and  sympathy — while  Mrs.  Eush- 
Marvelle  looked  after  their  retreating  figures  with  something 
of  doubt  and  wonder  on  her  placid  features.  But  whatever 
her  thoughts,  they  were  not  made  manifest  just  then.  Arriv- 
ing at  a  door  draped  richly  with  old  gold  plush  and  satin,  she 
knocked. 

"Come  in!"  cried  a  voice  that,  though  sweet  in  tone,  was 
also  somewhat  petulant. 

Mrs.  Marvelle  at  once  entered,  and  the  occupant  of  the  room 
sprung  up  in  haste  from  her  luxurious  reading  chair,  where 
she  was  having  her  long  dark  tresses  brushed  out  by  a  prim- 
looking  maid,  and  uttered  an  exclamation  of  delight. 

"My  dearest  Mimsey!"  she  cried,  "this  is  quite  too  sweet 
of  you!  You're  just  the  very  person  I  wanted  to  see!"  And 
she  drew  an  easy  fauteuil  to  the  sparkling  fire — for  the  weather 
was  cold,  with  that  particularly  cruel  coldness  common  to  an 
English  May — and  dismissed  her  attendant.  "Now  sit  down, 
you  dear  old  darhng,"  she  continued,  "and  let  me  have  all  the 
news!" 

Throwing  herself  back  in  her  lounge,  she  laughed,  and 
tossed  her  waving  hair  loose  over  her  shoulders,  as  the  maid 
had  left  it — then  she  arranged,  \Wth  a  coquettish  touch  here 
and  there,  the  folds  of  her  pale  pink  dressing-gown  showered 
with  delicate  Valenciennes.  She  was  undeniably  a  lovely 
woman.  Tall  and  elegantly  formed,  with  an  almost  regal 
grace  of  manner,  Clara,  Lady  Winsleigh  deserved  to  be  con- 
sidered, as  she  was,  one  of  the  reigning  beauties  of  the  day. 
Her  full  dark  eyes  were  of  a  bewitching  and  dangerous  soft- 
ness— her  complexion  was  pale,  but  of  such  a  creamy,  trans- 


THELMA.  247 

parent  pallor  as  to  be  almost  brilliant — her  mouth  was  small 
unci  exquisitely  shaped.  Irue,  lier  long  eyelashes  were  not 
altogether  innocent  of  "'kohl" — true,  there  was  a  faint  odor 
about  her  as  of  rare  perfumes  and  cosmetics — true,  there  was 
Bomething  not  altogether  sincere  or  natural  even  in  her  ravish- 
ing snhie  and  fascinating  ways — but  few,  save  cynics,  could 
reasonably  dispute  her  physical  perfectiuns,  or  question  the 
right  she  had  to  tempt  and  arouse  the  passions  of  men,  or  to 
trample  under  foot,  with  an  air  of  insolent  superiority,  the 
feelings  of  women  less  fair  and  fortunate.  Most  of  her  sex 
envied  her — but  Mrs.  Ptush-Marvelle,  who  was  past  the  prime 
of  life,  and  who,  moreover,  gained  her  social  successes  through 
intelligence  and  tact  alone,  was  far  too  sensible  to  grudge  any 
woman  her  beauty.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  a  frank  admirer 
of  handsome  persons,  and  she  surveyed  Lady  VVinsleigh  now 
through  her  glasses  Avdth  a  smile  of  bland  approval. 

"You  are  looking  very  well,  Clara,"  she  said.  "Let  me  see 
— you  went  to  Kissingen  in  the  summer,  didn't  you?" 

"Of  course  I  did,"  laughed  her  ladyship.  "It  was  delicious! 
I  suppose  you  know  Lennie  came  after  me  there!  Wasn't  it 
ridiculous?" 

Mrs.  Marvelle  coughed  dubiously.  "Didn't  Winsleigh  put 
in  an  appearance  at  all?"  she  asked. 

Lady  Clara's  brow  clouded.  "Oh,  yes!  For  a  couple  of 
weeks  or  so.  Ernest  came  with  him,  of  course,  and  they  ram- 
bled about  together  all  the  time.    The  boy  enjoyed  it." 

"I  remember  now,"  said  Mrs.  Marvelle.  "But  I've  not  seen 
anything  of  you  since  you  came  back,  Clara,  except  once  in 
the  park  and  once  at  the  theater.  You've  been  all  the  night 
at  Winsleigh  Court — by  the  bye,  was  Sir  Francis  Lennox  there 
too?" 

"Why,  naturally!"  replied  the  beauty,  with  a  cool  smile. 
"He  follows  me  everywhere  like  a  dog.    Poor  Lennie!" 

Again  the  elder  lady  coughed  significantly. 

Clara  Winsleigh  broke  into  a  ringing  peal  of  laughter,  and 
rising  from  her  lounge,  knelt  beside  her  visitor  in  a  very 
pretty  coaxing  attitude. 

"Come,  Mimsey!"  she  said,  "you  are  not  going  to  be 
'proper'  at  this  time  of  day!  That  would  be  a  joke!  Darling, 
indulgent,  good  old  Mimsey! — you  don't  mean  to  turn  into  a 
prim,  prosy,  cross  Mrs.  Clrundy!      I  don't  believe  it!      And 


248  THELMA. 

you  mustn't  be  severe  on  poor  Lennie — he's  such  a  docile, 
good  boy,  and  really  not  bad  looking!" 

Mrs.  Marvelle  fidgeted  a  little  on  her  chair.  "I  don't  want 
to  talk  about  Lennie,  as  you  call  him,"  she  said,  rather  testily— 
*'only  I  think  you'd  better  be  careful  how  far  you  go  with 
him.  I  came  to  consult  you  on  something  quite  different. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  about  the  Bruce-Errington  business? 
You  know  it  was  in  the  Tost'  to-day  that  they've  arrived  in 
town.  The  idea  of  Sir  Philip  bringing  his  common  wife  into 
society!    It's  too  ridiculous!" 

_  Lady  Winsleigh  sprung  to  her  feet,  and  her  eyes  flashed 
disdainfully. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do?"  she  repeated,  in  accents  of  bitter 
contempt.  "Why,  receive  them,  of  course!  It  will  be  the 
greatest  punishment  Bruce-Errington  can  have!  I'll  get  all 
the  best  people  here  that  I  know — and  he  shall  bring  his  peas- 
ant woman  among  them,  and  blush  for  her!  It  will  be  the 
greatest  fun  out!  Fancy  a  Norwegian  farmer's  girl  lumbering 
along  with  her  great  feet  and  red  hands! — and,  perhaps,  not 
knowing  whether  to  eat  an  ice  with  a  spoon  or  with  her  fin- 
gers! I  tell  you,  Bruce-Errington  will  be  ready  to  die  for 
shame — and  serve  him  right,  too!" 

Mrs.  Marvelle  was  rather  startled  at  the  harsh,  derisive 
laughter  -with,  which  her  ladyship  concluded  her  excited  obser- 
vations, but  she  merely  observed,  mildly: 

"Well,  then,  you  will  leave  cards?" 

"Certainly!" 

"Very  good — so  shall  I,"  and  Mrs.  Marvelle  sighed  resign- 
edly. "What  must  be,  must  be!  But  it's  really  dreadful  to 
think  of  it  all — I  would  never  have  believed  Philip  Errington 
could  have  so  disgraced  himself!" 

"He  is  no  gentleman!"  said  Lady  Winsleigh,  freezingly. 
"He  has  low  tastes  and  low  desires.  He  and  his  friend  Lori- 
mer  are  two  cads,  in  my  opinion!" 

"Clara!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Marvelle,  warningly.  "You  were 
fond  of  him  once! — now  don't  deny  it!" 

"Why  should  I  deny  it?"  and  her  ladyship's  dark  eyes 
blazed  with  concentrated  fury.  "I  loved  him!  There!  I 
would  have  done  anything  for  him!  He  might  have  trodden 
me  down  under  his  feet!  He  knew  it  well  enough — cold, 
cruel,  heartless  cynic  as  he  was  and  is!  Yes,  I  loved  him! — 
but  I  hate  him  now!" 


THELMA.  249 

And  she  stamped  her  foot  to  give  emphasis  to  her  wild 
words.  Mrs.  Marvelle  raised  her  hands  and  eyes  in  utter 
amazement. 

"Clara,  Clara!  Pray,  pray  be  careful!  Suppose  any  one 
else  heard  you  going  on  in  this  manner!  Your  reputation 
would  suffer,  I  assure  you!  Eeally,  you're  horribly  reckless! 
Just  think  of  your  husband — " 

"My  husband!"  and  a  cold  gleam  of  satire  played  round 
Lady  Winsleigh's  proud  mouth.  She  paused  and  laughed  a 
little.  Then  she  resumed  in  her  old,  careless  way — "You 
must  be  getting  very  goody-goody,  Mimsey,  to  talk  to  me 
about  my  husband!  Why  don't  you  read  me  a  lecture  on  the 
duties  of  wives  and  the  education  of  children  ?  I  am  sure  vou 
know  how  profoundly  it  would  interest  me!" 

She  paced  up  and  down  the  room  slowly  while  Mrs.  Marvelle 
remained  discreetly  silent.  Presently  there  came  a  tap  at  the 
door,  and  the  gorgeous  Briggs  entered.  He  held  himself  like 
an  automaton,  and  spoke  as  though  repeating  a  lesson. 

"His  lordship's  compliments,  and  will  her  la'ship  lunch  in 
the  dining  room  to-day?" 

"No,"  said  Lady  Winsleigh,  curtly.     "Luncheon  for  myself  , 
and  Mrs.  Marvelle  can  be  sent  up  here." 

Briggs  still  remained  immovable.  "His  lordship  wished 
to  know  if  Master  Hernest  was  to  come  to  your  la'ship  before 
goin'  out?" 

"Certainly  not!"  and  Lady  Winsleigh's  brows  drew  together 
in  a  frown.    "The  boy  is  a  perfect  nuisance!" 

Briggs  bowed  and  vanished.  Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle  grew 
more  and  more  restless.  She  was  a  good-hearted  woman,  and 
there  was  something  in  the  nature  of  Clara  Winsleigh  that,  in 
spite  of  her  easy-going  conscience,  she  could  not  altogether 
approve  of. 

"Do  you  never  luncheon  with  your  husband,  Clara?"  she 
asked  at  last. 

Lady  Winsleigh  looked  surprised.  "Very  seldom.  Only 
when  there  is  company,  and  I  am  compelled  to  be  present.  A 
domestic  meal  would  be  too  ennuyant!  I  wonder  you  can 
think  of  such  a  thing!     And  we  generally  dine  out." 

Mrs.  Marvelle  was  silent  again,  and,  when  she  did  speak,  it 
was  on  a  less  delicate  matter. 

"When  is  your  great  'crush,'  Clara?"  she  inquired.  "You 
sent  me  a  card,  but  I  forget  the  date." 


250  THELMA. 

"On  the  twenty-fifth,"  replied  Lady  Winsleigh.  "This  is 
the  fifteenth.  I  shall  call  on  Lady  Bruce-Errington" — here 
she  smiled  scornfully — "this  afternoon — and  to-morrow  I  shall 
send  them  their  invitations.  My  only  fear  is  whether  they 
mayn't  refuse  to  come.  I  would  not  miss  the  chance  for  the 
world!  I  want  my  house  to  be  the  first  in  which  her  peasant- 
ladyship  distinguishes  herself  by  her  blunders!" 

"I'm  afraid  it'll  be  quite  a  scandal!"  sighed  Mrs.  Eush- 
Marvelle.  "Quite!  Such  a  pity!  Bruce-Errington  was  such 
a  promising,  handsome  young  man!" 

At  that  moment  Briggs  appeared  again  with  an  elegantly 
set  luncheon-tray,  which  was  placed  on  the  table  with  a 
flourish. 

"Order  the  carriage  at  half-past  three,"  commanded  Lady 
Winsleigh.  "And  tell  Mrs.  Maxvelle's  coachman  that  he 
needn't  wait — I'll  drive  her  home  myself." 

"But,  my  dear  Clara,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Marvelle,  "I  must 
call  at  the  Van  Clupps'— " 

"I'll  call  there  with  you.  I  owe  them  a  visit.  Has  Marcia 
caught  young  Masherville  yet?" 

"Well,"  hesitated  Mrs.  Marvelle,  "he  is  rather  slippery,  you 
know — so  undecided  and  wavering!" 

Lady  Winsleigh  laughed.  "Never  mind  that!  Marcia's  a 
match  for  him!  Eather  a  taking  girl — only  what  an  accent! 
My  nerves  are  on  edge  whenever  I  hear  her  speak." 

"It's  a  pity  she  can't  conquer  that  defect,"  agreed  Mrs.  Mar- 
velle. "I  know  she  has  tried.  But,  after  all,  they're  not  the 
best  sort  of  Americans — " 

"The  best  sort!  I  should  think  not!  But  they're  of  the 
richest  sort,  and  that's  something,  Mimsey!  Besides,  though 
everybody  knows  what  Van  Clupp's  father  was,  they  niake  a 
good  pretense  of  being  well-born — they  don't  cram  their  low 
connections  down  your  throat,  as  Bruce-Errington  wants  to 
do  with  his  common  wife.  They  ignore  all  their  vulgar  be- 
longings delightfully!  They've  been  cruelly  'cut'  by  Mrs. 
Eippington — she's  American — but  then  she's  perfect  style. 
Do  you  remember  that  big  'at  home'  at  the  Van  Clupps' 
when  they  had  a  band  to  play  in  the  back-yard,  and  every- 
body was  deafened  by  the  noise?  Wasn't  it  quite  too 
ridiculous?" 

Lady  Winsleigh  laughed  over  this  reminiscence,  and  then 
betook  herself  to  the  consideration  of  lunch — a  tasty  meal 


THELMA.  251 

which  both  she  and  Mrs.  Marvelle  evidently  enjoyed,  flavored 
as  it  was  with  the  high  spice  of  scandal  concerning  their  most 
immediate  and  mutual  friends,  who  were,  after  much  interest- 
ing discussion,  one  by  one  condemned  as  of  "questionable" 
repute  and  uncertain  position.  Then  Lady  Winsleigh  sum- 
moned her  maid  and  was  arrayed  cap-a-pie  in  "carriage  toilet/' 
while  Mrs.  Marvelle  amused  herself  by  searching  the  columns 
of  "Truth"  for  some  new  tit-bit  of  immorality  connected  with 
the  royal  nobility  of  England.  And  at  half-past  three  pre- 
cisely, the  two  ladies  drove  off  together  in  an  elegant  victoria, 
drawn  by  a  dashing  pair  of  grays,  with  a  respectable  apoplec- 
tic coachman  on  the  box,  supported  by  the  stately  Briggs,  in 
all  the  glory  of  the  olive-green  and  gold  liveries  which  distin- 
guished the  Winsleigh  equipage.  By  her  ladyship's  desire, 
they  were  driven  straight  to  Prince's  Gate. 

"We  may  as  well  leave  our  cards  together,"  said  Clara,  with 
a  malicious  little  smile,  "though  I  hope  to  goodness  the  crea- 
ture won't  be  at  home." 

Bruce-Errington's  town  house  was  a  very  noble  looking 
mansion — refined  and  simple  in  outer  adornment,  with  a  broad 
entrance,  deep  portico,  and  lofty  windows — windows  which 
fortunately  were  not  spoiled  by  gaudy  hangings  of  silk  or 
satin  in  "aesthetic"  colors.  The  blinds  were  white — and,  what 
could  be  seen  of  the  curtains  from  the  outside,  suggested  the 
richness  of  falling  velvets  and  gold-woven  tapestries.  The 
drawing-room  balconies  were  full  of  brilliant  flowers,  shaded 
by  quaint  awnings  of  Oriental  pattern,  thus  giving  the  place 
an  air  of  pleasant  occupation  and  tasteful  elegance. 

Lady  Winsleigh's  carriage  drew  up  at  the  door,  and  Briggs 
descended. 

"Inquire  if  Lady  Bruce-Errington  is  at  home,"  said  his  mis- 
tress.   "And  if  not,  leave  these  cards." 

Briggs  received  the  scented  glossy  bits  of  pasteboard  in  his 
yellow-gloved  hand  with  due  gravity,  and  rang  the  bell 
marked  "Visitors"  in  his  usual  ponderous  manner,  with  a  force 
that  sent  it  clanging  loudly  through  the  corridors  of  the 
stately  mansion.  The  door  was  instantly  opened  by  a  respect- 
able man  with  gray  hair  and  a  gentle,  kindly  face,  who  was 
dressed  plainly  in  black,  and  who  eyed  the  gorgeous  Briggs 
with  the  faintest  suspicion  of  a  smile.  He  was  Errington's 
butler,  and  had  served  the  family  for  twenty-five  years. 

"Her  ladyship  is  driving  in  the  park,"  he  said,  in  response 


252  THELMA. 

to  the  condescending  inquiries  of  Briggs.  "She  left  the  house 
about  half  an  hour  ago!" 

Briggs  thereupon  handed  in  the  cards,  and  forthwith  re- 
ported the  result  of  his  interview  to  Lady  Winsleigh,  who 
said,  with  some  excitement: 

"Turn  into  the  park  and  drive  up  and  down  till  I  give 
further  orders." 

Briggs  mutely  touched  his  hat,  mounted  the  box,  and  the 
carriage  rapidly  bowled  in  the  required  direction,  while  Lady 
Winsleigh  remarked  laughingly  to  Mrs.  Marvelle: 

"Philip  is  sure  to  be  with  his  treasure!  If  we  can  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her,  sitting  staring  open-mouthed  at  everything,  it 
will  be  amusing!     We  shall  then  know  what  to  expect." 

Mrs.  Marvelle  said  nothing,  though  she  too  was  more  or  less 
curious  to  see  the  "peasant"  addition  to  the  circle  of  fashion- 
able society — and  when  they  entered  the  park,  both  she  and 
Lady  Winsleigh  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  quiet  gray  and  silver  of  the  Bruce-Errington  liveries. 
They  watched,  however,  in  vain — ^it  was  not  yet  the  hour  for 
the  crowding  of  the  Row — and  there  was  not  a  sign  of  the 
particular  equipage  they  were  so  desirous  to  meet.  Presently 
Lady  Winsleigh's  face  flushed — she  laughed — and  bade  her 
coachman  come  to  a  halt. 

"It  is  only  Lennie,"  she  said  in  answer  to  Mrs.  Marvelle's 
look  of  inquiry.    "I  must  speak  to  him  a  moment!" 

And  she  beckoned  coquettishly  to  a  slight,  slim  young  man 
with  a  dark  mustache  and  rather  handsome  features,  who  was 
idling  along  on  the  footpath,  apparently  absorbed  in  a  reverie, 
though  it  was  not  of  so  deep  a  character  that  he  failed  to  be 
aware  of  her  ladyship's  presence — in  fact  he  had  seen  her  as 
soon  as  she  appeared  in  the  park.  He  saw  everything  appar- 
ently without  looking — he  had  lazily  drooping  eyes,  but  a  swift 
under-glance  which  missed  no  detail  of  whatever  was  going 
on.  He  approached  now  with  an  excessively  languid  air, 
raising  his  hat  slowly,  as  though  the  action  bored  him. 

"How  do,  Mrs.  Marvelle!"  he  drawled,  lazily  addressing 
himself  first  to  the  elder  lady,  who  responded  somewhat  curtly 
— then  leaning  his  arms  on  the  carriage  door,  he  fixed  Lady 
Winsleigh  with  a  sleepy  stare  of  admiration.  "And  how  is 
our  Clara?  Looking  charming,  as  usual!  By  Jove!  Why 
weren't  you  here  ten  minutes  ago?     You  never  saw  such  a 


THELMA.  253 

sight  in  your  life!  Thought  the  whole  Eow  was  going  crazy, 
'pon  my  soul!" 

"Why,  what  happened?"  asked  Lady  Winsleigh,  smiling 
graciously  upon  him.    "Anything  extraordinary?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  you'd  call  extraordinary;"  and 
Sir  Francis  Lennox  yawned  and  examined  the  handle  of  his 
cane  attentively.  "I  suppose  if  Helen  of  Troy  came  driving 
full  pelt  down  the  Eow  all  of  a  sudden  there'd  be  some  slight 
sensation!" 

"Dear  me!"  said  Clara  Winsleigh,  pettishly.  "You  talk  in 
enigmas  to-day.     What  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 

Sir  Francis  condescended  to  smile.  "Don't  be  waxy, 
Clara!"  he  urged — "I  mean  what  I  say — a  new  Helen  appeared 
here  to-day,  and  instead  of  'tall  Troy'  being  on  fire,  as  Dante 
Eossetti  puts  it,  the  Eow  was  in  a  burning  condition  of  excite- 
ment— fellows  on  horseback  galloped  the  whole  length  of  the 
park  to  take  a  last  glimpse  of  her — her  carriage  dashed  off  to 
Eichmond  after  taking  only  four  turns.  She  is  simply 
magnificent!" 

"Who  is  she?"  and  in  spite  of  herself.  Lady  Winsleigh's 
smile  vanished  and  her  lips  quivered. 

"Lady  Bruce-Errington,"  answered  Francis,  readily.  "The 
loveliest  woman  in  the  world,  I  should  say!  Phil  was  beside 
her — he  looks  in  splendid  condition — and  that  meek  old  secre- 
tary fellow  sat  opposite — ISTeville — isn't  that  his  name?  Any- 
how they  seemed  as  jolly  as  pipers — as  for  that  woman,  she'll 
drive  everybody  out  of  their  wits  about  her  before  half  the 
season's  over." 

"But  she's  a  mere  peasant!"  said  Mrs.  Marvelle,  loftily. 
"Entirely  uneducated — a  low,  common  creature!" 

"Ah,  indeed!"  and  Sir  Francis  again  yawned  extensively. 
"Well,  I  don't  know  anything  about  that!  She  was  ex- 
quisitely dressed,  and  she  held  herself  like  a  queen.  As  for 
her  hair — I  never  saw  such  wonderful  hair — there's  every 
shade  of  gold  in  it." 

"Dyed!"  said  Lady  Winsleigh,  with  a  sarcastic  little  laugh. 
"She's  been  in  Paris.  I  dare  say  a  good  coiffeur  has  done  it 
for  her  there  artistically!" 

This  time  Sir  Francis'  smile  was  a  thoroughly  amused  one. 

"Commend  me  to  a  woman  for  spite!"  he  said,  carelessly. 
"But  I'll  not  presume  to  contradict  you,  Clara!  You  know 
best,  I  dare  say!    Ta-ta!    I'll  come  for  you  to-night — ^you  know 


254  THELMA. 

we're  bound  for  the  theater  together.  By-bye,  Mrs.  Marvelle! 
You  look  younger  than  ever!" 

And  Sir  Francis  Lennox  sauntered  easily  away,  leaving  the 
ladies  to  resume  their  journey  through  the  park.  Lady  Wins- 
leigh  looked  vexed — Mrs.  Marvelle  bewildered. 

"Do  you  think?"  inquired  the  latter,  "she  can  really  be  so 
wonderfully  lovely?" 

"No,  I  don't!"  answered  Clara,  snappishly.  "I  dare  say 
she's  a  plump  creature  with  a  high  color — men  like  fat 
women  with  brick-tinted  complexions — they  think  it's 
healthy.  Helen  of  Troy  indeed!  Pooh!  Lennie  must  be 
crazy." 

The  rest  of  their  drive  was  very  silent — they  were  both 
absorbed  in  their  own  reflections.  On  arriving  at  the  Van 
Clupps',  they  found  no  one  at  home — not  even  Marcia — so 
I^dy  Winsleigh  drove  her  "dearest  Mimsey"  back  to  her  own 
house  in  Kensington,  and  there  left  her  with  many  expressions 
of  tender  endearment — then,  returning  home,  proceeded  to 
make  an  elaborate  and  brilliant  toilet  for  the  enchantment 
and  edification  of  Sir  Francis  Lennox  that  evening.  She 
dined  alone,  and  was  ready  for  her  admirer  when  he  called  for 
her  in  his  private  hansom,  and  drove  away  with  him  to  the 
theater,  where  she  was  the  cynosure  of  many  eyes;  meanwhile 
her  husband,  Lord  Winsleigh,  was  pressing  a  good-night  kiss 
on  the  heated  forehead  of  an  excited  boy,  who,  plunging  about 
in  his  little  bed  and  laughing  heartily,  was  evidently  desirous 
of  emulating  the  gambols  of  the  clown  who  had  delighted  him 
that  afternoon  at  Hengler's. 

"Papa,  could  you  stand  on  your  head  and  shake  hands  with 
your  foot?"  demanded  this  young  rogue,  confronting  his  father 
with  tousled  curls  and  flushed  cheeks. 

Lord  Winsleigh  laughed.  "Really,  Ernest,  I  don't  think  I 
could!"  he  answered,  good-naturedly.  "Haven't  you  talked 
enough  about  the  circus  by  this  time?  I  thought  you  were 
ready  for  sleep,  otherwise  I  should  not  have  come  up  to  say 
good-night." 

Ernest  studied  the  patient,  kind  features  of  his  father  for  a 
moment,  and  then  slipped  penitently  under  the  bed-clothes, 
settling  his  restless  young  head  determinedly  on  the  pillow. 

"I'm  all  right  now!"  he  murmured  with  a  demure,  dimpling 
smile.  Then,  with  a  tender  unward  twinkle  of  his  merry  blue 
eyes,  he  added,  "Good-night,  papa  dear!    God  bless  you!" 


THELMA.  255 

A  sort  of  wistful  pathos  softened  the  grave  lines  of  Lord 
Winsleigh's  countenance  as  he  bent  once  more  over  the  little 
bed  and  pressed  his  bearded  lips  lightly  on  the  boy's  fresh 
cheek,  as  cool  and  soft  as  a  rose-leaf. 

"God  bless  you,  little  man!"  he  answered  softly,  and  there 
was  a  slight  quiver  in  his  calm  voice.  Then  he  put  out  the 
light  and  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  after  him  with  care- 
ful noiselessness.  Descending  the  broad  stairs  slowly,  his 
face  changed  from  its  late  look  of  tenderness  to  one  of  stern 
and  patient  coldness,  which  was  evidently  its  habitual  expres- 
sion. He  addressed  himself  to  Briggs,  who  was  lounging 
aimlessly  in  the  hall. 

"Her  ladyship  is  out  ?" 

"Yes,  my  lord!  Gone  to  the  theayter  with  Sir  Francis 
Lennox." 

Lord  Winsleigh  turned  upon  him  sharply.  "I  did  not  ask 
you,  Briggs,  where  she  had  gone,  or  who  accompanied  her. 
Have  the  goodness  to  answer  my  questions  simply,  without 
adding  useless  and  unnecessary  details." 

Briggs'  mouth  opened  a  little  in  amazement  at  his  master's 
peremptory  tone,  but  he  answered  promptly: 

"Very  good,  my  lord!" 

Lord  Winsleigh  paused  a  moment,  and  seemed  to  consider. 
Then  he  said: 

"See  that  her  ladyship's  supper  is  prepared  in  the  dining- 
room.  She  will  most  probably  return  rather  late.  Should 
she  inquire  for  me,  say  I  am  at  the  Carlton." 

Again  Briggs  responded:  "Very  good,  my  lord!"  And 
like  an  exemplary  servant  as  he  was,  he  lingered  about  the 
passage  while  Lord  Winsleigh  entered  his  library,  and,  after 
remaining  there  some  ten  minutes  or  so,  came  out  again  in 
hat  and  great-coat.  The  officious  Briggs  handed  him  his  cane, 
and  inquired: 

"'Ansom,  my  lord?" 

"Thanks,  no.     I  will  walk." 

It  was  a  fine  moonlight  night,  and  Briggs  stood  for  some 
minutes  on  the  steps,  airing  his  shapely  calves  and  watch- 
ing the  tall,  dignified  figure  of  his  master  walking,  with  the 
upright,  stately  bearing  which  always  distinguished  him,  in 
the  direction  of  Pall  Mall.  Park  Lane  was  full  of  crowding 
carriages  with  twinkling  lights,  all  bound  to  the  different 
sources  of  so-called  "pleasure"  by  which  the  opening  of  the 


256  THELMA. 

season  is  distinguished.  Briggs  surveyed  the  scene  with  lofty 
indift'erence,  snifEed  the  cool  breeze,  and,  finding  it  somewhat 
chilly,  re-entered  the  house  and  descended  to  the  servants' 
hall.  Here  all  the  domestics  of  the  Winsleigh  household  were 
seated  at  a  large  table  loaded  with  hot  and  savory  viands — a 
table  presided  over  by  a  robust  and  perspiring  lady  with  a 
very  red  face,  and  sturdy  arms  bare  to  the  elbow. 

"Lor',  Mr.  Briggs!"  cried  this  personage,  rising  respectfully 
as  he  approached,  " 'ow  late  you  are!  Wot  'ave  you  been 
a-doin'  on?  'Ere  I've  been  a-keepin'  your  lamb-chops  and 
truffles  'ot  all  this  time,  and  if  they's  dried  up  'tain't  my  fault, 
nor  that  of  the  hoven,  which  is  as  good  a  hoven  as  you  can 
wish  to  bake  in." 

She  paused  breathless,  and  Briggs  smiled  blandly. 

"Now,  Flopsie!"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  severity.  "Ex- 
cited again — as  usual!  It's  bad  for  your  'elth — very  bad! 
Hif  the  chops  is  dried,  your  course  is  plain — cook  some  more! 
Not  that  I  am  enny  ways  particular — but  chippy  meat  is  bad 
for  a  delicate  digestion.  And  you  would  not  make  me  hill, 
my  Flopsie,  would  you?" 

Whereupon  he  seated  himself,  and  looked  condescendingly 
round  the  table.  He  was  too  great  a  personage  to  be  familiar 
with  such  inferior  creatures  as  house-maids,  scullery-girls, 
and  menials  of  that  class — he  was  only  on  intimate  terms  with 
the  cook,  Mrs.  Flopper,  or,  as  he  called  her,  "Flopsie" — the 
coachman,  and  Lady  Winsleigh's  own  maid,  Louise  Renaud, 
a  prim,  sallow-faced  French  woman,  who,  by  reason  of  her 
nationality,  was  called  by  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  kitchen 
"mamzelle,"  as  being  a  name  both  short,  appropriate,  and 
convenient. 

On  careful  examination  the  lamb  chops  turned  out  satisfac- 
torily— "chippiness"  was  an  epithet  that  could  not  justly  be 
applied  to  them — and  Mr.  Briggs  began  to  eat  them  leisurely, 
flavoring  them  with  a  glass  or  two  of  fine  port  out  of  a  decan- 
ter which  he  had  taken  the  precaution  to  bring  down  from  the 
dining-room  sideboard. 

"I  ham  late,"  he  then  graciously  explained — "not  that  I  was 
detained  in  enny  way  by  the  people  upstairs.  The  gay  Clara 
went  out  early,  but  I  was  absorbed  in  the  evenin'  papers — 
Winsleigh  forgot  to  ask  me  for  them.  But  he'll  see  them  at 
his  club.    He's  gone  there  now  on  foot — poor  fellah!" 

"I  suppose  she's  with  the  same  party?"    grinned    the    fat 


THELMA.  257 

Flopsie,  as  she  held  a  large  piece  of  bacon  dipped  in  vinegar 
on  her  fork,  preparatory  to  swallowing  it  with  a  gulp. 

Briggs  nodded  gravely.  "The  same!  Not  a  fine  man  at 
all,  you  know — no  leg  to  speak  of,  and  therefore  no  form. 
Legs — good  legs — are  beauty.  Now,  Winsleigh's  not  bad  in 
that  particular — and  I  dare  say  Clara  can  hold  her  own — but  I 
wouldn't  bet  on  little  Francis." 

Flopsie  shrieked  with  laughter  till  she  had  a  "stitch  in  her 
side,"  and  was  compelled  to  restrain  her  mirth. 

"Lor',  Mr.  Briggs!"  she  gasped,  wiping  the  moisture  from 
her  eyes,  "you  are  a  reglar  one,  aren't  you!  Mussy  on  us! 
you  ought  to  put  all  wot  you  say  in  the  papers — you'd  make 
your  fortin!" 

"May  be,  may  be,  Flopsie,"  returned  Briggs,  with  due  dig- 
nity. "I  will  not  deny  that  there  may  be  wot  is  called 
'sparkle'  in  my  natur.  And  'sparkle'  is  wot  is  rekwired  in 
polite  literatoor.  Look  at  'Hedmund'  and  '  'Enery!'  Sparkle 
again — read  their  magnificent  productions,  the  'World'  and 
'Truth' — all  sparkle,  every  line!  It  is  the  secret  of  success. 
Flopsie — be  a  sparkler,  and  you've  got  everything  before 
you." 

Louise  Eenaud  looked  across  at  him  half  defiantly.  Her 
prim,  cruel  mouth  hardened  into  a  tight  line. 

"To  spark-el?"  she  said — "that  is  what  we  call  etinceler — 
eclater.  Yes,  I  comprehend!  Miladi  is  one  great  spark-el! 
But  one  must  be  a  very  good  jewel  to  spark-el  always — yes — 
yes — not  a  sham!" 

And  she  nodded  a  great  many  times,  and  ate  her  salad  very 
fast.    Briggs  surveyed  her  with  much  complacency. 

"You  are  a  talented  woman,  mamzelle,"  he  said,  "very 
talented!    I  admire  your  ways — I  really  do!" 

Mamzelle  smiled  with  a  gratified  air,  and  Briggs  settled  his 
wig,  eying  her  anew  with  fresh  interest. 

"Wot  a  witness  you  would  be  in  a  divorce  case!"  he  con- 
tinued, enthusiastically.    "You'd  be  in  your  helement!" 

"I  should — I  should  indeed!"  exclaimed  mamzelle,  with 
sudden  excitement — then  as  suddenly  growing  calm,  she  made 
a  rapid  gesture  with  her  hands:  "But  there  will  be  no  divorce. 
Milord  Winsleigh  is  a  fool!" 

Briggs  appeared  doubtful  about  this,  and  meditated  for  a 
long  time  over  his  third  glass  of  port  with  the  profound  grav- 
ity of  a  philosopher. 

17 


258  THELMA. 

"No,  mamzelle/'  he  said,  at  last,  when  he  rose  from  the 
tahle  to  return  to  his  duties  upstairs — "No!  there  I  must  differ 
from  you.  I  am  a  close  ohserver.  Wotever  Winsleigh's 
faults — and  I  do  not  deny  that  they  are  many — he  is  a  gentle- 
man— that  I  must  admit — and  with  hevery  respect  for  you, 
mamzelle — I  can  assure  you  he's  no  fool!" 

And  with  these  words  Briggs  betook  himself  to  the  hbrary 
to  arrange  the  reading-lamp  and  put  the  room  in  order  for  his 
master's  return,  and  as  he  did  so,  he  paused  to  look  at  a  fine 
photograph  of  Lady  Winsleigh  that  stood  on  the  oak  escritoire 
opposite  her  husband's  arm-chair. 

"No,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Wotever  he  thinks  of  some 
goings-on,  he  ain't  blind  nor  deaf — that's  certain.  And  I'd 
stake  my  character  and  professional  reputation  on  it — wotever 
he  is,  he's  no  fool." 

For  once  in  his  life,  Briggs  was  right.  He  was  generally 
wrong  in  his  estimate  of  both  persons  and  things — ^but  it  so 
happened  on  this  particular  occasion  that  he  had  formed  a 
perfectly  correct  judgment. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Could  you  not  drink  her  gaze  like  wine? 

Yet  in  its  splendor  swoon 
Into  the  silence  languidly, 

As  a  tune  into  a  tune? 

Dante  Rossetti. 

On  the  morning  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  May,  Thelma,  Lady 
Bruce-Errington,  sat  at  breakfast  with  her  husband  in  their 
sunshiny  morning  room,  fragrant  with  flowers  and  melodious 
with  the  low  piping  of  a  tame  thrush  in  a  wide  gilded  cage, 
who  had  the  sweet  habit  of  warbling  his  strophes  to  himself 
very  softly  now  and  then  before  venturing  to  give  them  full- 
voiced  utterance.  A  bright-eyed  feathered  poet  he  was,  and 
an  exceeding  favorite  with  his  fair  mistress,  who  occasionally 
leaned  back  in  her  low  chair  to  look  at  him  and  murmur  an 
encouraging  "Sweet,  sweet!"  which  caused  the  speckled  plum- 
age on  his  plump  breast  to  ruffle  up  with  suppressed  emotion 
and  gratitude. 

Philip  was  pretending  to  read  the  "Times,"  but  the  huge, 


THELMA.  259 

self-important  printed  sheet  had  not  the  faintest  interest  for 
him — his  eyes  wandered  over  the  top  of  its  columns  to  the 
golden  gleam  of  his  wife's  hair,  brightened  just  then  by  the 
sunlight  streaming  through  the  window — and  finally  he  threw 
it  down  beside  him  with  a  laugh. 

"There's  no  news/'  he  declared.  "There  never  is  any 
news!'^ 

Thelma  smiled  and  her  deep-blue  eyes  sparkled. 

"No?"  she  half  inquired — then  taking  her  husband's  cup 
from  his  hand  to  refill  it  with  coffee,  she  added:  "But  I  think 
you  do  not  give  yourself  time  to  find  the  news,  Philip.  You 
will  never  read  the  papers  more  than  five  minutes." 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  Philip,  gayly,  "T.  am  more  conscientious 
than  you  are,  at  any  rate,  for  you  never  read  them  at  all!" 

"Ah,  but  you  must  remember,"  she  returned,  gravely,  "that 
is  because  I  do  not  understand  them.  I  am  not  clever.  They 
seem  to  me  to  be  all  about  such  dull  things — unless  there  is 
some  horrible  murder  or  cruelty  or  accident — and  I  would 
rather  not  hear  of  these.  I  do  prefer  books  always — ^because 
the  books  last,  and  the  news  is  never  certain — it  may  not  even 
be  true." 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  fondly;  his  thoughts  were  evi- 
dently very  far  away  from  newspapers  and  their  contents. 

As  she  met  his  gaze  the  rich  color  flushed  her  soft  cheeks 
and  her  eyes  dropped  shyly  under  their  long  lashes.  Love, 
with  her,  had  not  yet  proved  an  illusion — a  bright  toy  to  be 
snatched  hastily  and  played  with  for  a  brief  while,  and  then 
thrown  aside  as  broken  and  worthless.  It  seemed  to  her  a 
most  marvelous  and  splendid  gift  of  God,  increasing  each  day 
in  worth  and  beauty — widening  upon  her  soul  and  dazzling 
her  life  in  ever  new  and  expanding  circles  of  glory.  She  felt 
as  if  she  could  never  sufficiently  understand  it — the  passionate 
adoration  Philip  lavished  upon  her  filled  her  with  a  sort  of 
innocent  wonder  and  gratitude — while  her  own  overpowering 
love  and  worship  of  him  sometimes  startled  her  by  its  force 
into  a,  sweet  shame  and  hesitating  fear.  To  her  mind  he  was 
all  that  was  great,  strong,  noble,  and  beautiful — ^he  was  her 
master,  her  king — and  she  loved  to  pay  him  homage  by  her 
exquisite  humility,  clinging  tenderness,  and  complete  con- 
tented submission.  She  was  neither  weak  nor  timid — her 
character,  molded  on  grand  and  simple  lines  of  duty,  saw  the 
laws  of  nature  in  their  true  light,  and  accepted  them  without 


260  THELMA. 

question.  It  seemed  to  her  quite  clear  that  man  was  the 
superior,  woman  the  inferior,  creature,  and  she  could  not  un- 
derstand the  possibility  of  any  wife  not  rendering  instant  and 
implicit  obedience  to  her  husband,  even  in  trifles. 

Since  her  wedding-day  no  dark  cloud  had  crossed  her  heaven 
of  happiness,  though  she  had  been  a  little  confused  and  be- 
wildered at  first  by  the  wealth  and  dainty  luxury  with  which 
Sir  Philip  had  delighted  to  surround  her.  She  had  been  mar- 
ried quietly  at  Christiania,  arrayed  in  one  of  her  own  simple 
white  gowns,  with  no  ornament  save  a  cluster  of  pale  blush- 
roses,  the  gift  of  Lorimer.  The  ceremony  was  witnessed  by 
her  father  and  Errington's  friends — and  when  it  was  con- 
cluded they  had  all  gone  on  their  several  ways — old  Guldmar 
for  a  "toss"  on  the  Bay  of  Biscay — the  yacht  "Eulalie,"  with 
Lorimer,  Macfarlane,  and  Duprez  on  board,  back  to  England, 
where  these  gentlemen  had  separated  to  their  respective 
homes — while  Errington  with  his  beautiful  bride,  and  Britta 
in  demure  and  delighted  attendance  on  her,  went  straight  to 
Copenhagen.  From  there  they  traveled  to  Hamburg,  and 
through  Germany  to  the  Schwarzwald,  where  they  spent  their 
honey-moon  at  a  quiet  little  hotel  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
deep-green  forest. 

Days  of  delicious  dreaming  were  these — days  of  roaming  on 
the  emerald  green  turf  under  the  stately  and  odorous  pines, 
listening  to  the  dash  of  the  water-falls  or  watching  the  crim- 
son sunset  burning  redly  through  the  darkness  of  the  branches 
— and  in  the  moonlight  evenings  sitting  under  the  trees  to 
hear  the  entrancing  music  of  a  Hungarian  string-band,  which 
played  divine  and  voluptuous  melodies  of  the  land — "lieder" 
and  "walzer"  that  swung  the  heart  away  on  a  golden  thread  of 
song  to  a  paradise  too  sweet  to  name!  Days  of  high  ecstasy 
and  painfully  passionate  joy — when  "love,  love!"  palpitated 
in  the  air,  and  struggled  for  utterance  in  the  jubilant  throats 
of  birds,  and  whispered  wild  suggestions  in  the  rustling  of  the 
leaves!  There  were  times  when  Thelma — lost  and  amazed 
and  overcome  by  the  strength  and  sweetness  of  the  nectar 
held  to  her  innocent  lips  by  a  smiling  and  flame- winged  Eros — 
would  wonder  vaguely  whether  she  lived  indeed,  or  whether 
she  were  not  dreaming  some  gorgeous  dream,  too  brilliant  to 
last?  And  even  when  her  husband's  arms  most  surely  em- 
braced her,  and  her  husband's  kiss  met  hers  in  all  the  rapture 
of  victorious  tenderness,  she  would  often  question  herself  as 


THELMA.  261 

to  whether  she  were  worthy  of  such  perfect  happiness,  and 
she  would  pray  in  the  depths  of  her  pure  heart  to  be  made 
more  deserving  of  this  great  and  wonderful  gift  of  love — this 
supreme  joy,  almost  too  vast  for  her  comprehension. 

On  the  other  hand,  Errington's  passion  for  his  wife  was 
equally  absorbing — she  had  become  the  very  moving  spring 
of  his  existence.  His  eyes  delighted  in  her  beaaty — ^but  more 
than  this,  he  reveled  in  and  reverenced  the  crystal-clear  purity 
and  exquisite  refinement  of  her  soul.  Life  assumed  for  him  a 
new  form — studied  by  the  light  of  Thelma's  straightforward 
simplicity  and  intelligence,  it  was  no  longer,  as  he  had  once 
been  inclined  to  think,  a  mere  empty  routine — it  was  a  treas- 
ure of  inestimable  value  fraught  with  divine  meanings.  Grad- 
ually, the  touch  of  modern  cynicism,  that  had  at  one  time 
threatened  to  spoil  his  nature,  dropped  away  from  him  like 
the  husk  from  an  ear  of  corn — the  world  arrayed  itself  in 
bright  and  varying  colors — there  was  good — nay,  there  was 
glory — in  everything. 

With  these  ideas,  and  the  healthy  satisfaction  they  engen- 
dered, his  heart  grew  light  and  joyous — his  eyes  more  lustrous 
— his  step  gay  and  elastic — and  his  whole  appearance  was  that 
of  a  man  at  his  best — man,  as  God  most  surely  meant  him  to 
be — not  a  rebellious,  feebly  repining,  sneering  wretch,  ready 
to  scoff  at  the  very  sunlight — but  a  being  both  brave  and  in- 
telligent, strong  and  equally  balanced  in  temperament,  and 
not  only  contented,  but  absolutely  glad  to  be  alive — glad  to 
feel  the  blood  flowing  through  the  veins — glad  and  grateful 
for  the  gifts  of  breathing  and  sight. 

As  each  day  passed,  the  more  close  and  perfect  grew  the 
sympathies  of  husband  and  wife — they  were  like  two  notes  of 
a  perfect  chord,  sounding  together  in  sweetest  harmony. 
Naturally,  much  of  this  easy  and  mutual  blending  of  character 
and  disposition  arose  from  Thelma's  own  gracious  and  grace- 
ful submissiveness — submissiveness  which,  far  from  humiliat- 
ing her,  actually  placed  her  (though  she  knew  it  not)  on  a 
throne  of  almost  royal  power,  before  which  Sir  Philip  was 
content  to  kneel — an  ardent  worshiper  of  her  womanly  sweet- 
ness. Always  without  question  or  demur,  she  obeyed  his 
wishes  implicitly — though,  as  has  been  before  mentioned,  she 
was  at  first  a  little  overpowered  and  startled  by  the  evidences 
of  his  wealth,  and  did  not  quite  know  what  to  do  with  all  the 
luxuries  and  gifts  he  heaped  upon  her.     Britta's  wordly  prog- 


262  THELMA. 

nostications  had  come  true — the  simple  gowns  her  mistress 
had  worn  at  the  Alten  Fjord  were  soon  discarded  for  more 
costly  apparel — though  Sir  Philip  had  an  affection  for  his 
wife's  Norwegian  costumes,  and  in  his  heart  thought  they 
were  as  pretty,  if  not  prettier,  than  the  most  perfect  triumphs 
of  a  Parisian  modiste. 

But  in  the  social  world,  fashion,  the  capricious  deity,  must 
be  followed,  if  not  wholly,  yet  in  part;  and  so  Thelma's 
straight,  plain  garments  were  laid  carefully  by  as  souvenirs 
of  the  old  days,  and  were  replaced  by  toilets  of  the  most 
exquisite  description — some  simple — some  costly — and  it  was 
difficult  to  say  in  which  of  them  the  lovely  wearer  looked  her 
best.  She  herself  was  indifferent  in  the  matter — she  dressed 
to  please  Philip — if  he  was  satisfied,  she  was  happy — she 
sought  nothing  further.  It  was  Britta  whose  merry  eyes 
sparkled  with  pride  and  admiration  when  she  saw  her 
"Froken"  arrayed  in  gleaming  silk  or  sweeping  velvets,  with 
the  shine  of  rare  jewels  in  her  rippling  hair — it  was  Britta  who 
took  care  of  all  the  dainty  trifles  that  gradually  accumulated 
on  Thelma's  dressing-table — in  fact,  Britta  had  become  a  very 
important  personage  in  her  own  opinion.  Dressed  neatly  in 
black,  with  a  coquettish  muslin  apron  and  cap  becomingly 
frilled,  she  was  a  very  taking  little  maid  with  her  demure 
rosy  face  and  rebellious  curls,  though  very  different  to  the 
usual  trained  spy  whose  officious  ministrations  are  deemed  so 
necessary  by  ladies  of  position,  whose  lofty  station  in  life 
precludes  them  from  the  luxury  of  brushing  their  own  hair. 
Britta's  duties  were  slight — she  invented  most  of  them — yet 
she  was  always  busy  sewing,  dusting,  packing,  or  polishing. 
She  was  a  very  wide-awake  little  person,  too — no  hint  was  lost 
upon  her — and  she  held  her  own  wherever  she  went  with  her 
bright  eyes  and  sharp  tongue.  Though  secretly  in  an  un- 
bounded state  of  astonishment  at  everything  new  she  saw,  she 
was  too  wise  to  allow  this  to  be  noticed,  and  feigned  the 
utmost  coolness  and  indifference,  even  when  they  went  from 
Germany  to  Paris,  where  the  brilliancy  and  luxury  of 
the  shops  almost  took  away  her  breath  for  sheer  wonder- 
ment. 

In  Paris,  Thelma's  wardrobe  was  completed — a  certain 
Madame  Eosine,  famous  for  "artistic  arrangements,"  was 
called  into  requisition,  and  viewing  with  a  professional  eye  the 
superb  figure  and  majestic  carriage  of  her  new  customer,  rose 


THELMA.  263 

to  the  occasion  in  all  her  glory,  and  resolved  that  Miladi 
Bruce-Errington's  dresses  should  be  the  wonder  and  envy  of 
all  who  beheld  them, 

"For,"  said  madame,  with  a  grand  air,  "it  is  to  do  me  jus- 
tice. That  form  so  magnificent  is  worth  draping — it  will 
support  my  work  to  the  best  advantage.  And  persons  without 
figures  will  hasten  to  me  and  entreat  me  for  costumes,  and 
will  think  that  if  I  dress  them  I  can  make  them  look  as  well 
as  miladi.  And  they  will  pay!" — Madame  shook  her  head  with 
such  shrewdness — Mon  Dieu!  they  will  pay — and  that  they 
still  look  frightful  will  not  be  my  fault." 

And  undoubtedly  madame  surpassed  her  usual  skill  in  all 
she  did  for  Thelma — she  took  such  pains,  and  was  so  success- 
ful in  all  her  designs,  that  "Miladi,"  who  did  not  as  a  rule 
show  more  than  a  very  ordinary  interest  in  her  toilet,  found  it 
impossible  not  to  admire  the  artistic  taste,  harmonious  color- 
ing, and  exquisite  fit  of  the  few  choice  gowns  supplied  to  her 
from  the  "Maison  Eosine" — and  on  only  one  occasion  had  she 
any  discussion  with  the  celebrated  modiste.  This  was  when 
madame  herself,  with  much  pride,  brought  home  an  evening 
dress  of  the  very  palest  and  tenderest  sea-green  silk,  showered 
with  pearls  and  embroidered  in  silver,  a  perfect  chef-d'oeuvre 
of  the  dressmaker's  art.  The  skirt,  with  its  billowy  train  and 
peeping  folds  of  delicate  lace,  pleased  Thelma — ^but  she  could 
not  understand  the  bodice,  and  she  held  that  very  small  por- 
tion of  the  costume  in  her  hand  with  an  air  of  doubt  and 
wonderment.  At  last  she  turned  her  grave  blue  eyes  inquir- 
ingly on  madame. 

'T^t  is  not  finished?"  she  asked.  "Where  is  the  upper  part 
of  it  and  the  sleeves?" 

Madame  Eosine  gesticulated  with  her  hands  and  smiled. 

"Miladi,  there  is  no  more!"  she  declared.  "Miladi  will  per- 
ceive it  is  for  the  evening  wear — it  is  decollete  — ^it  is  to  show 
everybody  miladi's  most  beautiful  neck  and  arms.  The  effect 
will  be  ravishing!" 

Thelma's  face  grew  suddenly  grave — almost  stem. 

"You  must  be  very  wicked!"  she  said  severely,  to  the  infin- 
ite amazement  of  the  vivacious  Eosine.  "You  think  I  would 
show  myself  to  people  half  clothed?  How  is  it  possible?  T 
would  not  so  disgrace  myself!  It  would  bring  shame  to  my 
husband!" 

Madame  was  almost  speechless  with  surprise.     What  strange 


264  THELMA. 

lady  was  this  who  was  so  dazzlingly  beautiful  and  graceful, 
and  yet  so  ignorant  of  the  world's  ways?  She  stared — but 
was  soon  on  the  defensive. 

"Miladi  is  in  a  little  error!"  she  said  rapidly  and  with  soft 
persuasiveness.  "It  is  la  rnode.  Miladi  has  perhaps  lived  in 
a  country  where  the  fashions  are  different.  But  if  she  will 
ask  the  most  amiable  Sieur  Bruce-Errington,  she  will  find 
that  her  dress  is  quite  in  keeping  with  les  convenances." 

A  pained  blush  crimsoned  Thelma's  fair  cheek.  "I  do  not 
like  to  ask  my  husband  such  a  thing,"  she  said,  slowly,  "but 
I  must.  For  I  could  not  wear  this  dress  without  shame.  I 
can  not  think  he  would  wish  me  to  appear  in  it  as  you  have 
made  it — but — "  She  paused,  and  taking  up  the  objection- 
able bodice,  she  added,  gently:  "You  will  kindly  wait  here, 
madame,  and  I  will  see  what  Sir  Phihp  says." 

And  she  retired,  leaving  the  modiste  in  a  state  of  much 
astonishment,  approaching  resentment.  The  idea  was  out- 
rageous— a  woman  with  such  divinely  fair  skin — a  woman  with 
the  bosom  of  a  Venus,  and  arms  of  a  shape  to  make  sculptors 
rave — and  yet  she  actually  wished  to  hide  these  beauties  from 
the  public  gaze!  It  was  ridiculous — utterly  ridiculous^ — and 
madame  sat  fuming  impatiently  and  sniffing  the  air  in  wonder 
and  scorn.  Meanwhile  Thelma,  with  flushing  cheeks  and 
lowered  eyes,  confided  her  difficulty  to  Philip,  who  surveyed 
the  shocking  little  bodice  she  brought  for  his  inspection  with 
a  gravely  amused  but  very  tender  smile. 

"There  certainly  does  not  seem  much  of  it,  does  there,  dar- 
ling?" he  said.    "And  so  you  don't  like  it?" 

"No,"  she  confessed,  frankly — "I  think  I  should  feel  quite 
undressed  in  it.  I  often  wear  just  a  little  opening  at  the 
throat — but  this — !  Still,  Philip,  I  must  not  displease  you — 
and  I  will  always  wea^*  what  you  wish,  even  if  it  is  uncom- 
fortable to  myself." 

"Look  here,  my  pet,"  and  he  encircled  her  waist  fondly 
with  his  arm,  "Eosine  is  quite  right.  The  thing's  perfectly 
fashionable — and  there  isn't  a  woman  in  society  who  wouldn't 
be  perfectly  charmed  with  it.  But  your  ideas  are  better  than 
Eosine's  and  all  society's  put  together.  Obey  your  own 
womanly  instinct,  Thelma!" 

"But  what  do  you  wish?"  she  asked,  earnestly — "you  must 
tell  me.    It  is  to  please  you  that  I  live." 


THELMA.  265 

He  kissed  her.  "You  want  me  to  issue  a  command  about 
this  affair?"  he  said  half  laughingly. 

She  smiled  up  into  his  eyes.    "Yes — and  I  will  obey!" 

"Very  well!  Now  listen!"  and  he  held  her  by  both  hands, 
and  looked  with  sudden  gravity  into  her  sweet  face — "Thelma, 
my  wife,  thus  sayeth  your  lord  and  master — Despise  the  vul- 
gar indecencies  of  fashion,  and  you  will  gratify  me  more  than 
words  can  say — keep  your  pure  and  beautiful  self  sacred  from 
the  profaning  gaze  of  the  multitude — sacred  to  me  and  my 
love  for  you,  and  I  shall  be  the  proudest  man  living!  Finally" 
— and  he  smiled  again — "give  Eosine  back  this  effort  at  a 
bodice,  and  tell  her  to  make  something  more  in  keeping  with 
the  laws  of  health  and  modesty.  And,  Thelma — one  more 
kiss!    You  are  a  darling!" 

She  laughed  softly  and  left  him,  returning  at  once  to  the 
irate  dressmaker  who  waited  for  her. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said  very  sweetly,  "to  have  called  you 
wicked!  You  see,  I  did  not  understand!  But  though  this 
style  of  dress  is  fashionable,  I  do  not  wish  to  wear  it — so  you 
will  please  make  me  another  bodice,  with  a  small  open  square 
at  the  throat  and  elbow-sleeves — and  you  will  lose  nothing  at 
all — for  I  shall  pay  you  for  this  one  just  the  same.  And  you 
must  quite  pardon  me  for  my  mistake  and  hasty  words!" 

Miladi's  manner  was  so  gracious  and  winning  that  Madame 
Rosine  found  it  impossible  not  to  smile  in  a  soothed  and  molli- 
fied way — and  though  she  deeply  regretted  that  so  beautiful 
a  neck  and  arms  were  not  to  be  exposed  to  public  criticism, 
she  resigned  herself  to  the  inevitable,  and  took  away  the 
offending  bodice,  replacing  it  in  a  couple  of  days  by  one 
much  prettier  and  more  becoming  by  reason  of  its  perfect 
modesty. 

On  leaving  Paris,  Sir  Philip  had  taken  his  wife  straight 
home  to  his  fine  old  manor  in  Warwickshire.  Thelma's 
delight  in  her  new  abode  was  unbounded — the  stately  oaks 
that  surrounded  it — the  rose-gardens,  the  conservatories — the 
grand  rooms,  with  their  fine  tapestries,  oak  furniture,  and  rare 
pictures — the  splendid  library,  the  long,  lofty  drawing-rooms, 
furnished  and  decorated  after  the  style  of  Louis  Quinze — all 
filled  her  with  a  tender  pride  and  wistful  admiration.  This 
was  Philip's  home!  and  she  was  here  to  make  it  bright  and 
glad  for  him — she  could  imagine  no  fairer  fate.  The  old  ser- 
vants of  the  place  welcomed  their  new  mistress  with  marked 


266  THELMA. 

respect  and  evident  astonishment  at  her  beauty,  though,  when 
they  knew  her  better,  they  marveled  still  more  at  her  exceeding 
gentleness  and  courtesy.  The  housekeeper,  a  stately  white- 
haired  dame,  who  had  served  the  former  Lady  Errington, 
declared  she  was  "an  angel" — while  the  butler  swore  pro- 
foundly that  "he  knew  what  a  queen  was  like  at  last!" 

The  whole  household  was  pervaded  with  an  affectionate 
eagerness  to  please  her,  though,  perhaps,  the  one  most  dazzled 
by  her  entrancing  smile  and  sweet  consideration  for  his  com- 
fort was  Edward  Neville,  Sir  Philip's  private  secretary  and 
librarian — a  meek,  mild-featured  man  of  some  five-and-forty 
years  old,  whose  stooping  shoulders,  grizzled  hair,  and  weak 
eyes  gave  him  an  appearance  of  much  greater  age.  Thelma 
was  particularly  kind  to  Neville,  having  heard  his  history 
from  her  husband.  It  was  brief  and  sad.  He  had  married  a 
pretty  young  girl  whom  he  had  found  earning  a  bare  subsist- 
ence as  a  singer  in  provincial  music  halls — loving  her,  he  had 
pitied  her  unprotected  state,  and  had  rescued  her  from  the 
life  she  led — ^but  after  six  months  of  comparative  happiness, 
she  had  suddenly  deserted  him,  leaving  no  clew  as  to  where 
or  why  she  had  gone.  His  grief  for  her  loss  weighed  heavily 
upon  his  mind — he  brooded  incessantly  upon  it — and  though 
his  profession  was  that  of  a  music  master  and  organist,  he 
grew  so  abstracted  and  inattentive  to  the  claims  of  the  few 
pupils  he  had,  that  they  fell  away  from  him  one  by  one — and, 
after  a  bit,  he  lost  his  post  as  organist  to  the  village  church  as 
well.  This  smote  him  deeply,  for  he  was  passionately  fond  of 
music,  and  was,  moreover,  a  fine  player — and  it  was  at  this 
stage  of  his  misfortunes  that  he  met  by  chance  Bruce-Erring- 
ton.  Philip,  just  then,  was  almost  broken-hearted — ^his  father 
and  mother  had  died  suddenly  within  a  week  of  one  another — 
and  he,  finding  the  blank  desolation  of  his  home  unbearable, 
was  anxious  to  travel  abroad  for  a  time,  so  soon  as  he  could 
find  some  responsible  person  in  whose  hands  to  leave  the 
charge  of  the  manor,  with  its  invaluable  books  and  pictures, 
during  his  absence. 

Hearing  Neville's  story  through  a  mutual  friend,  he  de- 
cided, with  his  usual  characteristic  impulse,  that  here  was  the 
very  man  for  him, — a  gentleman  by  birth,  rumored  to  be  an 
excellent  scholar — and  he  at  once  offered  him  the  post  he  had 
in  view — that  of  private  secretary  at  a  salary  of  £200  per 
annum.    The  astonished  Neville  could  not  at  first  believe  in 


THELMA.  267 

his  good  fortune,  and  began  to  stammer  forth  his  gratitude 
with  trembhng  lips  and  moistening  eyes — but  Errington  cut 
him  short  by  declaring  the  whole  thing  settled,  and  desiring 
him  to  enter  on  his  duties  at  once.  He  was  forthwith  installed 
in  his  position — a  highly  enviable  one  for  a  man  of  his  dreamy 
meditative  turn  of  mind.  To  him,  literature  and  music  were 
precious  as  air  and  light — he  handled  the  rare  volumes  on  the 
Errington  book-shelves  with  lingering  tenderness,  and  often 
pored  over  some  difficult  manuscript  or  dusty  folio  till  long 
past  midnight,  almost  forgetful  of  his  griefs  in  the  enchant- 
ment thus  engendered.  Nor  did  he  lack  his  supreme  com- 
forter, music — there  was  a  fine  organ  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
long  library,  and  seated  at  his  beloved  instrument,  he  whiled 
away  many  an  hour — steeping  his  soul  in  the  divine  and 
solemn  melodies  of  Palestrina  and  Pergolese,  till  the  cruel 
sorrow  that  had  darkened  his  life  seemed  nothing  but  a  bad 
dream,  and  the  face  of  his  wife,  as  he  had  first  known  it,  fair, 
trustful,  and  plaintive,  floated  before  his  eyes  unchanged,  and 
arousing  in  him  the  old  foolish  throbbing  emotions  of  rapture 
and  passion  that  had  gladdened  the  by-gone  days. 

He  never  lost  the  hope  of  meeting  her  again,  and  from  time 
to  time  he  renewed  his  search  for  her,  though  all  uselessly. 
He  studied  the  daily  papers  with  an  almost  morbid  anxiety 
lest  he  should  see  the  notice  of  her  death — and  he  would  even 
await  each  post  with  a  heart  beating  more  rapidly  than  usual, 
in  case  there  should  be  some  letter  from  her,  imploring  for- 
giveness, explaining  everything,  and  summoning  him  once 
more  to  her  side.  He  found  a  true  and  keenly  sympathizing 
friend  in  Sir  Philip,  to  whom  he  had  become  profoundly  at- 
tached— to  satisfy  his  wishes,  to  forward  his  interests,  to 
attend  to  his  affairs  with  punctilious  exactitude — all  this 
gave  Neville  the  supremest  happiness.  He  felt  some  slight 
doubt  and  anxiety  when  he  first  received  the  sudden  announce- 
ment of  his  patron's  marriage — but  all  forebodings  as  to  the 
character  and  disposition  of  the  new  Lady  Bruce-Errington 
fled  like  mist  before  sunshine  when  he  saw  Thelma's  fair  face 
and  felt  her  friendly  hand-clasp. 

Every  morning  on  her  way  to  the  breakfast-room,  she  would 
look  in  at  the  door  of  his  httle  study,  which  adjoined  the 
library,  and  he  learned  to  watch  for  the  first  glimmer  of  her 
dress,  and  to  listen  for  her  bright  "Good-morning,  Mr.  Ne- 
ville!" with  a  sensation  of  the  kindest  pleasure.     It  was  a  sort 


268  THELMA. 

of  benediction  on  the  whole  day.  A  proud  man  was  he  when 
she  asked  him  to  give  her  lessons  on  the  organ — and  never  did 
he  forget  the  first  time  he  heard  her  sing.  He  was  playing 
an  exquisite  "Ave  Maria/'  hy  Stradella,  and  she,  standing 
by  her  husband's  side,  was  listening,  when  she  suddenly  ex- 
claimed: 

"Why,  we  used  to  sing  that  at  Aries!" — and  her  rich,  round 
voice  pealed  forth  clear,  solemn,  and  sweet,  following  with 
pure  steadiness  the  sustained  notes  of  the  organ.  Neville's 
heart  thrilled — he  heard  her  with  a  sort  of  breathless  wonder 
and  rapture,  and  when  she  ceased  it  seemed  as  though  heaven 
had  closed  upon  him. 

"One  can  not  praise  such  a  voice  as  that!"  he  said.  "It 
would  be  a  kind  of  sacrilege.     It  is  divine!" 

After  this,  many  were  the  pleasant  musical  evenings  they 
all  passed  together  in  the  grand  old  library,  and — as  Mrs. 
Eush-Marvelle  had  so  indignantly  told  her  husband — no 
visitors  were  invited  to  the  manor  during  that  winter.  Erring- 
ton  was  perfectly  happy — he  wanted  no  one  but  his  wife,  and 
the  idea  of  entertaining  a  party  of  guests  who  would  most 
certainly  interfere  with  his  domestic  enjoyment  seemed  almost 
abhorrent  to  him.  The  county  people  called — but  missed 
seeing  Thelma,  for  during  the  day-time  she  was  always  out 
with  her  husband  taking  long  walks,  and  rambling  excursions 
to  the  different  places  hallowed  by  Shakespeare's  presence — 
and  when  she,  instructed  by  Sir  Philip,  called  on  the  county 
people,  they  also  seemed  to  be  never  at  home. 

And  so,  as  yet,  she  had  made  no  acquaintances,  and  now 
that  she  had  been  married  eight  months  and  had  come  to  Lon- 
don, the  same  old  story  repeated  itself.  People  called  on  her 
in  the  afternoon  just  at  the  time  when  she  went  out  driving — 
when  she  returned  their  visits,  she,  in  her  turn,  found  them 
absent.  She  did  not  as  yet  understand  the  mystery  of  having 
"a  day"  on  which  to  receive  visitors  in  shoals — a  day  on  which 
to  drink  unlimited  tea,  talk  platitudes,  and  be  utterly  bored 
and  exhausted  at  the  end  thereof — in  fact,  she  did  not  see  the 
necessity  of  knowing  many  people — her  husband  was  all-suffi- 
cient for  her — to  be  in  his  society  was  all  she  cared  for.  She 
left  her  card  at  different  houses  because  he  told  her  to  do  so, 
but  this  social  duty  amused  her  immensely. 

'*It  is  like  a  game!"  she  declared,  laughing;  "some  one 
comes  and  leaves  these  little  cards,  which  explain  who  they 


THELMA.  269 

are,  on  me — then  I  go  and  leave  my  little  card  and  yours, 
explaining  who  we  are,  on  that  some  one — and  we  keep  on 
doing  this,  yet  we  never  see  each  other  by  any  chancel  It  is 
so  droll!'' 

Errington  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  explain  what  was 
really  the  fact — namely,  that  none  of  the  ladies  who  had  left 
cards  on  his  wife  had  given  her  the  option  of  their  "at  home" 
day  on  which  to  call — he  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  tell  her 
what  he  knew  very  well,  that  his  "set,"  both  in  county  and 
town,  had  resolved  to  "snub"  her  in  every  petty  fashion  they 
could  devise — that  he  had  already  received  several  invitations 
which,  as  they  did  not  include  her,  he  had  left  unanswered — 
and  that  the  only  house  to  which  she  had  as  yet  been  really 
asked  in  proper  form  was  that  of  Lady  Winsleigh.  He  was 
more  amused  than  vexed  at  the  resolute  stand  made  by  the 
so-called  "leaders"  of  society  against  her,  knowing  as  he  did, 
most  thoroughly,  how  she  must  conquer  them  all  in  the  end. 
She  had  been  seen  nowhere  as  yet  but  in  the  park,  and  Philip 
had  good  reasons  to  be  contented  with  the  excitement  her 
presence  had  created  there — but  he  was  a  little  astonished  at 
Lady  Winsleigh's  being  the  first  to  extend  a  formal  welcome 
to  his  unknown  bride.  Her  behavior  seemed  to  him  a  little 
suspicious — for  he  certainly  could  not  disguise  from  himself 
that  she  had  at  one  time  been  most  violently  and  recklessly  in 
love  with  him.  He  recollected  one  or  two  most  painful  scenes 
he  had  had  with  her,  in  which  he  had  endeavored  to  recall  her 
to  a  sense  of  the  duty  she  owed  to  her  husband — and  his  face 
often  flushed  with  vexation  when  he  thought  of  her  wild  and 
wicked  abandonment  of  despair,  her  tears,  her  passion,  and 
distracted,  dishonoring  words.  Yet  she  was  the  very  woman 
who  now  came  forward  in  the  very  front  of  society  to  receive 
his  wife — he  could  not  quite  understand  it.  After  all,  he  was 
a  man — and  the  sundry  artful  tricks  and  wiles  of  fashionable 
ladies  were,  naturally,  beyond  him.  Thelma  had  never  met 
Lady  Winsleigh — not  even  for  a  passing  glance  in  the  park — 
and  when  she  received  the  invitation  for  the  grand  reception 
at  Winsleigh  House  she  accepted  it,  because  her  husband 
wished  her  so  to  do,  not  that  she  herself  anticipated  any  par- 
ticular pleasure  from  it.  When  the  day  came  round  at  last 
she  scarcely  thought  of  it,  till  at  the  close  of  their  pleasant 
breakfast  tete-a-tete  described  at  the  commencement  of  this 
chapter,  Philip  suddenly  said: 


270  THELMA. 

"By  the  bye,  Thelma,  I  have  sent  to  the  bank  for  tlie 
Errington  diamonds.  They'll  be  here  presently.  I  want  you 
to  wear  them  to-night." 

Thelma  looked  puzzled  and  inquiring. 

"To-night?  What  is  it  that  we  do?  I  forget!  Oh!  now  I 
know — it  is  to  go  to  Lady  Winsleigh.  What  will  it  be  like, 
Philip?" 

"Well,  there'll  be  heaps  of  people  all  cramming  and  crowd- 
ing up  the  stairs  and  down  them  again — you'll  see  all  those 
women  who  have  called  on  you,  and  you'll  be  introduced  to 
them — I  dare  say  there'll  be  some  bad  music  and  an  indigest- 
ible supper — and — and — that's  all!" 

She  laughed  and  shook  her  head  reproachfully. 

"I  can  not  believe  you,  my  naughty  boy!"  she  said,  rising 
from  her  seat  and  kneeling  beside  him  with  arms  round  his 
neck,  and  soft  eyes  gazing  lovingly  into  his.  "You  are  nearly 
as  bad  as  that  very  bad  Mr.  Lorimer,  who  will  always  see 
strange  vexations  in  everything!  I  am  quite  sure  Lady  Wins- 
leigh will  not  have  crowds  up  and  down  her  stairs — that  would 
be  bad  taste.  And  if  she  has  music,  it  will  be  good — and  she 
would  not  give  her  friends  a  supper  to  make  them  ill." 

Philip  did  not  answer.  He  was  studpng  every  delicate  tint 
in  his  wife's  dazzhng  complexion  and  seemed  absorbed. 

"Wear  that  one  gown  you  got  from  Worth,"  he  said,  abrupt- 
ly.    "I  like  it — it  suits  you." 

"Of  course  I  will  wear  it  if  you  wish,"  she  answered,  laugh- 
ing still.  "But  why?  What  does  it  matter?  You  want  me 
to  be  something  very  splendid  in  dress  to-night?" 

Philip  drew  a  deep  breath.  "I  want  you  to  eclipse  every 
woman  in  the  room!"  he  said,  with  remarkable  emphasis. 

She  grew  rather  pensive.  "I  do  not  think  that  would  be 
pleasant,"  she  said,  gravely.  "Besides,  it  is  impossible.  And 
it  would  be  wrong  to  wish  me  to  make  every  one  else  dis- 
satisfied with  themselves.    That  is  not  like  you,  my  Philip!" 

He  touched  with  tender  fingers  the  great  glistening  coil  of 
hair  that  was  twisted  up  at  the  top  of  her  graceful  head. 

"Ah,  darling!  You  don't  know  what  a  world  it  is,  and  what 
very  queer  people  there  are  in  it!  Never  mind!  Don't  bother 
yourself  about  it.  You'll  have  a  good  bird's-eye  view  of 
society  to-night,  and  you  shall  tell  me  afterward  how  you  like 
it.  I  shall  be  curious  to  know  what  you  think  of  Lady 
Winsleigh." 


THELMA.  271 

"She  is  beautiful,  is  she  not?" 

"Well,  she  is  considered  so  by  most  of  her  acquaintances, 
and  by  herself,"  he  returned  with  a  smile. 

"I  do  like  to  see  very  pretty  faces,"  said  Thelma,  warmly; 
"it  is  as  if  one  looked  at  pictures.  Since  I  have  been  in  Lon- 
don I  have  seen  so  many  of  them — it  is  quite  pleasant.  Yet 
none  of  these  lovely  ladies  seem  to  me  as  if  they  were  really 
happy  or  strong  in  health." 

"Half  of  them  have  got  nervous  diseases  and  all  sorts  of 
things  wrong  with  them  from  overmuch  tea  and  tight  lacing," 
replied  Errington,  "and  the  few  who  are  tolerably  healthy  are 
too  bouncing  by  half,  going  in  for  hunting  and  such-like 
amusements  till  they  grow  blowsy  and  fat,  and  coarse  as 
tom-boys  or  grooms.  They  can  never  hit  the  jtiste  imlieui 
Well!"  and  he  rose  from  the  breakfast-table.  "I'll  go  and  see 
Neville  and  attend  to  business.  We'll  drive  out  this  afternoon 
for  some  fresh  air,  and  afterward  you  must  rest,  my  pet — for 
you'll  find  an  'at  home'  more  tiring  than  climbing  a  mountain 
in  Norway." 

He  kissed  and  left  her  to  her  usual  occupations,  of  which 
she  had  many,  for  she  had  taken  great  pains  to  learn  all  the 
details  of  the  work  in  the  Errington  establishment — in  fact, 
she  went  every  morning  to  the  little  room  where  Mistress  Par- 
ton,  the  housekeeper,  received  her  with  much  respect  and 
affection,  and  duly  instructed  her  on  every  point  of  the  domes- 
tic management  and  daily  expenditure,  so  that  she  was  thor- 
oughly acquainted  with  everything  that  went  on. 

She  had  very  orderly  quiet  ways  of  her  own,  and  though 
thoughtful  for  the  comfort  and  well-being  of  the  lowest  ser- 
vant in  her  household,  she  very  firmly  checked  all  extrava- 
gance and  waste,  yet  in  such  a  gentle,  unobtrusive  manner 
that  her  control  was  scarcely  felt — though  her  husband  at  once 
recognized  it  in  the  gradually  decreasing  weekly  expenses, 
while  to  all  appearance  things  were  the  same  as  ever.  She 
had  plenty  of  clear,  good  common  sense — she  saw  no  reason 
why  she  should  waste  her  husband's  wealth  simply  because 
it  was  abundant — so  that  under  her  mild  sway,  Sir  Philip 
found  himself  getting  richer  without  any  trouble  on  his  own 
part.  His  house  assumed  an  air  of  lighter  and  more  tasteful 
elegance — flowers,  always  arranged  by  Thelma  herself, 
adorned  the  rooms — birds  filled  the  great  conservatory  with 
their  delicious  warblings,  and  gradually  that  strange  fairy- 


272  THELMA. 

sweet  fabric  known  as  "Home"  rose  smilingly  around  him. 
Formerly  he  had  much  disliked  his  stately  town  mansion — he 
had  thought  it  dull  and  cold — almost  gloomy — but  now  he 
considered  it  charming,  and  wondered  he  had  missed  so  many 
of  its  good  points  before.  And  when  the  evening  for  Lady 
Winsleigh's  "crush"  came — he  looked  regretfully  round  the 
lovely  luxurious  drawing-room  with  its  bright  fire,  deep  easy- 
chairs,  books  and  grand  piano,  and  wished  he  and  his  wife 
could  remain  at  home  in  peace.  He  glanced  at  his  watch — it 
was  ten  o'clock.  There  was  no  hurry — he  had  not  the  least 
intention  of  arriving  at  Winsleigh  House  too  early.  He  knew 
what  the  effect  of  Thelma's  entrance  would  be — and  he  smiled 
as  he  thought  of  it.  He  was  waiting  for  her  now — he  himself 
was  ready  in  full  evening  dress — and  remarkably  handsome 
he  looked.  He  walked  up  and  down  restlessly  for  a  minute 
or  so — then  taking  up  a  volume  of  Keats,  he  threw  himself 
into  an  easy-chair  and  soon  became  absorbed.  His  eyes  were 
still  on  the  reprinted  page,  when  a  light  touch  on  his  shoulder 
startled  him — a  soft,  half -laughing  voice  inquired: 

"Philip!    Do  I  please  you?" 

He  sprung  up  and  faced  her — but  for  a  moment  could  not 
speak.  The  perfection  of  her  beauty  had  never  ceased  to 
arouse  his  wonder  and  passionate  admiration — but  on  this 
night,  as  she  stood  before  him,  arrayed  in  a  simple,  trailing 
robe  of  ivory-tinted  velvet,  with  his  family  diamonds  flashing 
in  a  tiara  of  light  on  her  hair,  glistening  against  the  whiteness 
of  her  throat  and  rounded  arms,  she  looked  angelically  lovely, 
so  radiant,  so  royal,  and  withal  so  innocently  happy,  that, 
wistfully  gazing  at  her,  and  thinking  of  the  social  clique  into 
which  she  was  about  to  make  her  entry,  he  wondered  vaguely 
whether  he  was  not  wrong  to  take  so  pure  and  fair  a  creature 
among  the  false  glitter  and  reckless  hypocrisy  of  modern 
fashion  and  folly.  And  so  he  stood  silent,  till  Thelma  grew 
anxious. 

"Ah,  you  are  not  satisfied!"  she  said,  plaintively.  "I  am 
not  as  you  wish!    There  is  something  wrong." 

He  drew  her  closely  into  his  arms,  kissing  her  with  an 
almost  pathetic  tenderness. 

"Thelma,  my  love,  my  sweet  one!"  and  his  strong  voice 
trembled.  "You  do  not  know — how  should  you?  what  I  think 
of  you!  Satisfied?  Pleased?  Good  heavens — what  little 
words  those  are  to  express  my  feelings!     I  can  tell  you  how 


THELMA,  273 

you  look,  for  nothing  can  ever  make  you  vain.  You  are  beau- 
tiful!— ^you  are  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  have  ever  seen, 
and  you  look  your  very  best  to-night.  But  you  are  more  than 
beautiful — you  are  good  and  pure  and  true,  while  society  is — 
But  why  should  I  destroy  your  illusions?  Only,  my  wife — we 
have  been  all  in  all  to  each  other — and  now  I  have  a  foolish 
feeling  as  if  things  were  going  to  be  different — as  if  we  should 
not  be  so  much  together — and  I  wish — I  wish  to  God  I  could 
keep  you  all  to  myself  without  anybody's  interference!" 

She  looked  at  him  in  wonder,  though  she  smiled. 

"But  you  have  changed,  my  boy,  since  the  morning,"  she 
said.  "Then  you  did  wish  me  to  be  particular  in  dress — and 
to  wear  your  jewels  for  this  Lady  Winsleigh.  Now  your  eyes 
are  sad,  and  you  seem  as  if  you  would  rather  not  go  at  all. 
Well,  is  it  not  easy  to  remain  at  home?  I  will  take  off  these 
fine  things,  and  we  will  sit  together  and  read.  Shall  it  be 
so?" 

He  laughed.  "I  believe  you  would  do  it  if  I  asked  you!" 
he  said. 

"Yes,  of  course!  I  am  quite  happy  alone  with  you.  I  care 
nothing  for  this  party — what  is  it  to  me  if  you  do  not  wish 
to  go?" 

He  kissed  her  again.  "Thelma,  don't  spoil  me  too  much! 
If  you  let  me  have  my  own  way  to  such  an  extent,  who  knows 
what  an  awful  domestic  tyrant  I  may  become!  No,  dear — we 
must  go  to-night — there's  no  help  for  it.  You  see  we've  ac- 
cepted the  invitation,  and  it's  no  use  being  churlish.  Besides, 
after  all" — he  gazed  at  her  admiringly — "I  want  them  to  see 
my  Norwegian  rose!    Come  along!    The  carriage  is  waiting." 

They  passed  out  into  the  hall,  where  Britta  was  in  attend- 
ance with  a  long  cloak  of  pale  blue  plush  lined  with  white  fur, 
in  which  she  tenderly  enveloped  her  beloved  "Froken,"  her 
rosy  face  beaming  with  affectionate  adoration  as  she  glanced 
from  the  fair  diamond-crowned  head  down  to  the  point  of  the 
small  pearl-embroidered  shoe  that  peeped  beneath  the  edge  of 
the  rich,  sheeny  white  robe,  and  saw  that  nothing  was  lacking 
to  the  most  perfect  toilet  that  ever  woman  wore. 

"Good-night,  Britta!"  said  Thelma,  kindly.  "You  must  not 
sit  up  for  me.    You  will  be  tired." 

Britta  smiled — ^it  was  evident  she  meant  to  outwatch  the 
stars,  if  necessary,  rather  than  allow  her  mistress  to  be  unat- 
tended on  her  return.     But  she  said  nothing — she  waited  at 

18 


274  THELMA. 

the  door  while  Philip  assisted  his  wife  into  the  carriage — and 
still  stood  musingly  under  the  wide  portico  after  they  had 
driven  away. 

"Hadn't  you  better  come  in,  Miss  Britta?"  said  the  butler, 
respectfully — he  had  a  great  regard  for  her  ladyship's  httle 
maid. 

Britta,  recalled  to  herself,  started,  turned,  and  re-entered 
the  hall. 

"There  will  be  many  fine  folks  there  to-night,  I  suppose?" 
she  asked. 

The  butler  rubbed  his  nose  perplexedly.  "Fine  folks?  At 
Winsleigh  House?  Well,  as  far  as  clothes  go,  I  dare  say  there 
will.  But  there'll  be  no  one  like  her  ladyship — no  one!"  And 
he  shook  his  gray  head  emphatically. 

"Of  course  not!"  said  Britta,  with  a  sort  of  triumphant  de- 
fiance. "We  know  that  very  well,  Morris!  There's  no  one 
like  her  ladyship  anywhere  in  the  wide  world!  But  I  tell  you 
what — I  think  a  great  many  people  will  be  jealous  of  her." 

Morris  smiled.  "You  may  take  your  oath  of  that.  Miss 
Britta,"  he  said  with  placid  conviction.  "Jealous!  Jealous 
isn't  the  word  for  it!  Why,"  and  he  surveyed  Britta's  youth- 
ful countenance  with  fatherly  interest,  "you're  only  a  child, 
as  it  were,  and  you  don't  know  the  world  much.  Now  I've 
been  five-and-twenty  years  in  this  family,  and  I  knew  Sir 
Philip's  mother,  the  Lady  Eulalie — he  named  his  yacht  after 
her.  Ah!  she  was  a  sweet  creature — she  came  from  Austria, 
and  she  was  as  dark  as  her  present  ladyship  is  fair.  Wherever 
she  went,  I  tell  you,  the  women  were  ready  to  cry  for  spite 
and  envy  of  her  good  looks — and  they  would  say  anything 
against  her  they  could  invent.  That's  the  way  they  go  on 
sometimes  in  society,  you  know." 

"As  bad  as  in  Bosekop,"  murmured  Britta,  more  to  herself 
than  to  him,  "only  London  is  a  larger  place."  Then  raising 
her  voice  again,  she  said :  "Perhaps  there  will  be  some  people 
wicked  enough  to  hate  her  ladyship,  Morris?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Morris,  philosophically.  "I 
shouldn't  wonder  at  all!  There's  a  deal  of  hate  about  one  way 
or  another — and  if  a  lady  is  as  beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  cuts 
out  everybody  wherever  she  goes,  why  you  can't  expect  the 
other  ladies  to  be  very  fond  of  her.  "Tisn't  in  human  nature 
— at  least,  not  in  feminine  human  nature.  Men  don't  care 
much  about  their  looks  one  way  or  the  other,  unless  they're 


THELMA.  275 

young  chaps — then  one  has  a  little  patience  with  them  and 
tbey  come  all  right." 

But  Britta  had  become  meditative  again.  She  went  slowly 
up  into  her  mistress'  room,  and  began  arranging  the  few 
trifles  that  had  been  left  in  disorder. 

"Just  fancy!"  she  said  to  herself — "some  one  may  hate  the 
Froken  even  in  London  just  as  they  hated  her  in  Bosekop, 
because  she  is  so  unlike  everybody  else.  I  shall  keep  my  eyes 
open — and  I  shall  soon  find  out  any  wickedness  against  her! 
My  beautiful,  dear  darling!  I  believe  the  world  is  a  cruel 
place  after  all — but  she  shan't  be  made  unhappy  in  it,  if  I  can 
help  it!" 

And  with  this  emphatic  declaration,  she  kissed  a  little  shoe 
of  Thelma's  that  she  was  just  putting  by — and,  smoothing  her 
curls,  went  down  to  her  supper. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Such  people  there  are  living  and  flourishing  in  the  world — 
Faithless,  Hopeless,  Charityless— let  us  have  at  them,  dear  friends, 
with  might  and  main! — Thackebay. 

Who  can  adequately  describe  the  thrilling  excitement  at- 
tending an  aristocratic  "crush" — an  extensive,  sweeping-off- 
of-old-scores  "at  home" — that  scene  of  bewildering  confusion 
which  might  be  appropriately  set  forth  to  the  minds  of  the 
vulgar  in  the  once-popular  ditty,  "Such  a  getting  upstairs  I 
never  did  see!"  Who  can  paint  in  sufficiently  brilKant  colors 
the  mere  outside  of  a  house  thus  distinguished  by  this  strange 
festivity,  in  which  there  is  no  actual  pleasure — this  crowding 
of  carriages — this  shouting  of  small  boys  and  policemen? — who 
can,  in  words,  delineate  the  various  phases  of  lofty  indignation 
and  offense  on  the  countenances  of  pompous  coachmen,  forced 
into  contention  with  vulgar  but  good-natured  "eabbys" — for 
right  of  way? — who  can  sufficiently  set  forth  the  splendors  of 
a  striped  awning  avenue,  lined  on  both  sides  with  a  collection 
of  tropical  verdure,  hired  for  the  occasion  at  so  much  per 
dozen  pots,  and  illuminated  with  Chinese  lanterns!  Talk  of 
orange  groves  in  Italy  and  the  languid  Kght  of  a  southern 
moon!      What  are  they  compared  to  the  marvels  of  striped 


276  THELMA. 

awning?  Mere  trees — mere  moonlight — (poor  products  of 
Nature!)  do  not  excite  either  wonder  or  envy — but,  strange  to 
say,  an  awning  avenue  invariably  does!  As  soon  as  it  is 
erected  in  all  its  bland  suggestiveness,  no  matter  at  what 
house,  a  small  crowd  of  street  arabs  and  nurse-maids  collect 
to  stare  at  it — and  when  tired  of  staring,  pass  and  repass  under 
it  with  peculiar  satisfaction — the  beggar,  striving  for  a  crust, 
lingers  doubtfully  near  it,  and  ventures  to  inquire  of  the 
influenza-smitten  crossing-sweeper  whether  it  is  a  wedding  or 
a  party?  And  if  Awning  Avenue  means  matrimony,  the  beg- 
gar waits  to  see  the  guests  come  out — if,  on  the  contrary,  it 
stands  for  some  evening  festivity,  he  goes,  resolving  to  return 
at  the  appointed  hour,  and  try  if  he  can  not  persuade  one 
"swell"  at  least  to  throw  him  a  penny  for  his  night's  supper. 
Yes — a  great  many  people  endure  sharp  twinges  of  discontent 
at  the  sight  of  Awning  Avenue — people  who  can't  afford  to 
give  parties,  and  who  wish  they  could — pretty,  sweet  girls 
who  never  go  to  a  dance  in  their  lives,  and  long  with  all  their 
innocent  hearts  for  a  glimpse — just  one  glimpse! — of  what 
seems  to  them  inexhaustible,  fairy-like  delight — lonely  folks, 
who  imagine  in  their  simplicity  that  all  who  are  privileged  to 
pass  between  the  lines  of  hired  tropical  foliage  aforementioned 
must  perforce  be  the  best  and  most  united  of  friends — hungry 
men  and  women  who  picture,  with  watering  mouths,  the 
supper-table  that  lies  beyond  the  awning,  laden  with  good 
things,  of  the  very  names  of  which  they  are  hopelessly  ignorant 
— while  now  and  then  a  stern,  dark-browed  Thinker  or  two 
may  stalk  by  and  metaphorically  shake  his  fist  at  all  the 
waste,  extravagance,  useless  luxury,  humbug  and  hypocrisy 
Awning  Avenue  usually  symbolizes,  and  may  mutter  in  his 
beard  like  an  old-fashioned  tragedian:  "A  time  will  come!" 
Yes,  Sir  Thinker! — it  will  most  undoubtedly — it  must — but 
not  through  you — not  through  any  mere  human  agency. 
Modern  society  contains  within  itself  the  seed  of  its  own  de- 
struction— the  most  utter  Nihilist  that  ever  swore  deadly  oath 
need  but  contain  his  soul  in  patience  and  allow  the  seed  to 
ripen.  For  God's  justice  is  as  a  circle  that  slowly  surrounds  an 
evil  and  as  slowly  closes  on  it  with  crushing  and  resistless  force 
— and  feverish,  fretting  humanity,  however  nobly  inspired, 
can  do  nothing  either  to  hasten  or  retard  the  round,  perfect, 
absolute  and  Divine  Law.  So  let  the  babes  of  the  world  play 
on,  and  let  us  not  frighten  them  with  stories  of  earthquakes — 


THELMA.  277 

they  are  miserable  enough  as  it  is,  believe  it! — their  toys  are 
so  brittle,  and  snap  in  their  feeble  hands  so  easily,  that  one  is 
inclined  to  pity  them!  And  Awning  Avenue,  with  its  bor- 
rowed verdure  and  artificial  light,  is  frequently  erected  for  the 
use  of  some  of  the  most  wretched  among  the  cliildren  of  the 
earth — children  who  have  trifled  with  and  lost  everything — 
love,  honor,  hope,  and  faith,  and  who  are  traveling  rapidly  to 
the  grave  with  no  consolation  save  a  few  handf uls  of  base  coin, 
which  they  must,  perforce,  leave  behind  them  at  the  last. 

So  it  may  be  that  the  crippled  crossing-sweeper  outside 
AVinsleigh  House  is  a  very  great  deal  happier  than  the  master 
of  that  stately  mansion.  He  has  a  new  broom — and  Master 
Ernest  Winsleigh  has  given  him  two  oranges,  and  a  rather 
bulky  stick  of  sugar-candy.  He  is  a  protege  of  Ernest's — that 
bright  handsome  boy  considers  it  a  "Jolly  shame"  to  have  only 
one  leg,  and  has  said  so  with  much  emphasis — and  though  the 
little  sweeper  himself  has  never  regarded  his  affliction  quite 
in  that  light,  he  is  exceedingly  grateful  for  the  young  gentle- 
man's patronage  and  sympathy  thus  frankly  expressed.  And 
on  this  particular  night  of  the  grand  reception  he  stands,  lean- 
ing on  his  broom  and  munching  his  candy,  a  delighted  specta- 
tor of  the  scene  in  Park  Lane— the  splendid  equipages,  the 
prancing  horses,  the  glittering  liveries,  the  excited  cabmen, 
the  magnificent  toilets  of  the  ladies,  the  solemn  and  resigned 
deportment  of  the  gentlemen — and  he  envies  none  of  them — 
not  he!  Why  should  he?  His  oranges  are  in  his  pocket — un- 
touched as  yet— and  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  crowding  guests 
at  the  Winsleigh  supper-table  shall  find  anything  there  to 
yield  them  such  entire  enjoyment  as  he  will  presently  take  in 
his  humble  yet  refreshing  dessert.  And  he  is  pleased  as  a 
child  at  a  pantomime— the  Winsleigh  "at  home"  is  a  show 
that  amuses  him— and  he  makes  sundry  remarks  on  "  'im"  and 
"  'er"  in  a  meditative  sotto  voce.  He  peeps  up  Awning  Avenue 
heedless  of  the  severe  eye  of  the  policeman  on  guard— he 
sweeps  the  edge  of  the  crimson  felt  foot-cloth  tenderly  with 
his  broom — and  if  he  has  a  desire  ungratified,  it  is  that  he 
might  take  a  peep  Just  for  a  minute  inside  the  front  door,  and 
see  how  "they're  all  a-goin'  it!" 

And  how  are  they  a-goin'  it?  Well,  not  very  hilariously,  if 
one  may  Judge  by  the  aspect  of  the  gentlemen  in  the  hall  and 
on  the  stairs — gentlemen  of  serious  demeanor,  who  are  lean- 
ing, as  though  exhausted,  against  the  balusters,  with  a  univer- 


278  THELMA. 

sal  air  of  profound  weariness  and  dissatisfaction.  Some  of 
these  are  young  fledglings  of  manhood — callow  birds  who, 
though  by  no  means  innocent — are  more  or  less  inexperienced 
— and  who  have  fluttered  hither  to  the  snare  of  Lady  Wins- 
leigh's  "at  home,"  half  expecting  to  be  allowed  to  make  love 
to  their  hostess,  and  so  have  something  to  boast  of  afterward 
— others  are  of  the  middle-aged  complacent  type  who,  though 
infinitely  bored,  have  condescended  to  "look  in"  for  ten  min- 
utes or  so,  to  see  if  there  are  any  pretty  women  worth  the 
honor  of  their  criticism — others  again  (and  these  are  the  most 
unfortunate)  are  the  "nobodies" — or  husbands,  fathers,  and 
brothers  of  "beauties,"  whom  they  have  dutifully  escorted  to 
the  scene  of  trivimph,  in  which  they,  unlucky  wights!  are  cer- 
tainly not  expected  to  share.  A  little  desultory  conversation 
goes  on  among  these  stair-loungers — conversation  mingled 
with  much  dreary  yawning — a  trained  opera-singer  is  shaking 
forth  chromatic  roulades  and  trills  in  the  great  drawing-room 
above — there  is  an  incessant  stream  of  people  coming  and 
going — there  is  the  rustle  of  silk  and  satin — perfume  shaken 
out  of  lace  kerchief  and  bouquets  oppresses  the  warm  air — the 
heat  is  excessive — and  there  is  a  never-ending  monotonous 
hum  of  voices,  only  broken  at  rare  intervals  by  the  "society 
laugh" — that  unmeaning  giggle  on  the  part  of  the  women — 
that  strained  "ha,  ha,  ha!"  on  the  part  of  the  men,  which  is 
but  the  faint  ghostly  echo  of  the  farewell  voice  of  true  mirth. 

Presently,  out  of  the  ladies'  cloak-room  come  two  fascinat- 
ing figures — the  one  plump  and  matronly,  with  gray  hair  and 
a  capacious  neck  glittering  with  diamonds — the  other  a  slim 
girl  in  pale  pink,  with  dark  eyes  and  a  ravishing  complexion, 
for  whom  the  lazy  gentlemen  on  the  stairs  make  immediate 
and  respectful  room. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Mrs.  Van  Clupp?"  says  one  of  the  loungers. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Marcia!"  says  another,  a  sandy- 
haired  young  man,  with  a  large  gardenia  in  his  button-hole 
and  a  glass  in  his  eye. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Miss  Marcia  stops  and  regards  him 
with  a  surprised  smile.  She  is  very  pretty,  is  Marcia — be- 
witchingly  pretty — and  she  has  an  air  of  demure  grace  and 
modesty  about  her  that  is  perfectly  charming.  Why!  oh,  why 
does  she  not  remain  in  that  sjdph-like  attitude  of  questioning 
silence?     But  she  speaks — and  the  charm  is  broken. 

''Waal  now!    Dew  tell!"  she   exclaims.     "I   thought   yew 


<n 


THELMA.  279 

were  in  Pa-ar — ^is!  Ma,  would  yew  have  concluded  to  find  Lord 
Algy  here?  This  is  too  lovely!  If  I'd  known  yew  were 
coming  I'd  have  stopped  at  home — yes,  I  would — that's  so!" 

And  she  nods  her  little  head,  crowned  with  its  glossy  braids 
of  chestnut  hair,  in  a  very  coquettish  manner,  while  her 
mother,  persistently  beaming  a  stereotyped  company  smile  on 
all  around  her,  begins  to  ascend  the  stairs,  beckoning  her 
daughter  to  follow.  Marcia  does  so,  and  Lord  Algernon 
Masherville  escorts  her. 

"You — you  didn't  mean  that?"  he  stammers  rather  feebly — 
"You — you  don't  mind  my  being  here,  do  you?  I'm — I'm 
awfully  glad  to  see  you  again,  you  know — and — er — all  that 
sort  of  thing!" 

Marcia  darts  a  keen  glance  at  him — the  glance  of  an  observ- 
ant clear-headed  magpie. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  dare  say!"  she  remarks  with  airy  scorn. 
" 'Spect  me  to  believe  yew!  Wall!  Did  yew  have  a  good 
time  in  Pa-ar — is?" 

"Fairly  so,"  answers  Lord  Masherville,  indifferently.  "I 
only  came  back  two  days  ago.  Lady  Winsleigh  met  me  by 
chance  at  the  theater,  and  asked  me  to  look  in  to-night  for 
'some  fun,'  she  said.    Have  you  any  idea  what  she  meant?" 

"Of  course!"  says  the  fair  New  Yorker,  with  a  little  nasal 
laugh.  "Don't  yew  know?  We're  all  here  to  see  the  fisher- 
woman  from  the  wilds  of  Norway — the  creature  Sir  Philip 
Errington  married  last  year.  I  conclude  she'll  give  us  fits  all 
round,  don't  yew?" 

Lord  Masherville,  at  this,  appears  to  hesitate.  His  eye- 
glass troubles  him,  and  he  fidgets  with  its  black  string.  He 
is  not  intellectual — he  is  the  most  vacillating,  most  meek  and 
timid  of  mortals — but  he  is  a  gentleman  in  his  own  poor 
fashion,  and  has  a  sort  of  fluttering  chivalry  about  him,  which, 
though  feeble,  is  better  than  none. 

"I  really  can  not  tell  you,  Miss  Marcia,"  he  replies  almost 
nervously.  "I  hear — at  the  club — that — that  Lady  Bruce- 
Errington  is  a  great  beauty." 

"Dew  tell!"  shrieks  Marcia,  with  a  burst  of  laughter.  "Is 
she  really,  though!  But  I  guess  her  looks  won't  mend  her 
grammar  any  way." 

He  makes  no  reply,  as  by  this  time  they  have  reached  the 
crowded  drawing-room,  where  Lady  Winsleigh,  radiant  in 
ruby  velvet  and  rose-brilliants,  stands  receiving  her  guests. 


280  THELMA. 

with  a  cool  smile  and  nod  for  mere  acquaintances — and  a  mean- 
ing flash  of  her  dark  eyes  for  her  intimates,  and  a  general  air 
of  haughty  insolence  and  perfect  self-satisfaction  pervading 
her  from  head  to  foot.  Close  to  her  is  her  husband,  grave, 
courtly,  and  kind  to  all  comers,  and  fulfilling  his  duty  as  host 
to  perfection — still  closer  is  Sir  Francis  Lennox,  who  in  the 
pauses  of  the  incoming  tide  of  guests  finds  occasion  to  whis- 
per trifling  nothings  in  her  tiny  white  ear,  and  even  once  ven- 
tures to  arrange  more  tastefully  a  falling  cluster  of  pale  roses 
that  rests  lightly  on  the  brief  shoulder-strap  (called  by  court- 
esy a  sleeve)  which  keeps  her  ladyship's  bodice  in  place. 

Mrs.  Rush-Marvelle  is  here,  too,  in  all  her  glory — her  good- 
humored  countenance  and  small  nose  together  beam  with 
satisfaction — her  voluminous  train  of  black  satin  showered 
with  jet  gets  in  everybody's  way — her  ample  bosom  heaves 
like  the  billowy  sea,  somewhat  above  the  boundary  line  of 
transparent  lace  that  would  fain  restrain  it — ^but  in  this  par- 
ticular she  is  prudence  itself  compared  with  her  hostess, 
whose  charms  are  exhibited  with  the  unblushing  frankness  of 
a  ballet-girl — and  whose  example  is  followed,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, by  most  of  the  women  in  the  room.  Is  Mr.  Rush- 
Marvelle  here?  Oh,  yes — after  some  little  trouble  we  discover 
him — squeezed  against  the  wall  and  barricaded  by  the  grand 
piano — in  company  with  a  large  album,  over  which  he  pores, 
feigning  an  almost  morbid  interest  in  the  portraits  of  persons 
he  has  never  seen,  and  never  will  see.  Beside  him  is  a 
melancholy  short  man  with  long  hair  and  pimples,  who  sur- 
veys the  increasing  crowd  in  the  room  with  an  aspect  that  is 
almost  tragic.  Once  or  twice  he  eyes  Mr.  Marvelle  dubiously 
as  though  he  would  speak — and,  finally,  he  does  speak,  tapping 
that  album-entranced  gentleman  on  the  arm  with  an  energy 
that  is  somewhat  startling. 

"It  is  to  blay  I  am  here!"  he  announces.  "To  blay  ze 
biano!  I  am  great  artist!"  He  rolls  his  eyes  wildly  and  with 
a  sort  of  forced  calmness  proceeds  to  enumerate  on  his  fingers 
— "Baris,  Vienna,  Rome,  Berlin,  St.  Betersburg — all  know 
me!  All  resbect  me!  See!"  And  he  holds  out  his  button- 
hole, in  which  there  is  a  miniature  red  ribbon.  "From  ze 
emberor!  Kaiser  Wilhelm!"  He  exhibits  a  ring  on  his  little 
finger.  "From  ze  Czar!"  Another  rapid  movement  and  a 
pompous  gold  watch  is  thrust  before  the  bewildered  gaze  of 


J> 


THELMA.  281 

his  listener.  "From  my  bubils  in  Baris!  I  am  bianist — I  am 
here  to  blay!" 

And  raking  his  fingers  through  liis  long  locks,  he  stares 
defiantly  around  him.  Mr.  Eush-Marvelle  is  a  little  fright- 
ened. This  is  an  eccentric  personage — he  must  be  soothed. 
Evidently  he  must  be  soothed! 

"Yes,  yes,  I  quite  understand!"  he  says,  nodding  persua- 
sively at  the  excited  genius.  "You  are  here  to  play.  Exactly! 
Yes,  yes!  We  shall  all  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  you  pres- 
ently.    Delightful,  I'm  sure.     You  are  the  celebrated  Herr — ' 

"Machtenklinken,"  adds  the  pianist  haughtily.  "Ze  cele- 
brated Machtenklinken!" 

"Yes — oh — er — yes!"  And  Mr.  Marvelle  grapples  desper- 
ately with  this  terrible  name.  "Oh,  er — yes!  I — er  know  you 
by  reputation,  Herr — er  Machten —  Oh,  er — yes!  Pray  ex- 
cuse me  for  a  moment!" 

And  thankfully  catching  the  commanding  eye  of  his  wife, 
he  scrambles  hastily  away  from  the  piano  and  joins  her.  She 
is  talking  to  the  Van  Clupps,  and  she  wants  him  to  take  away 
Mr.  Van  Clupp,  a  white-headed,  cunning-looking  old  man,  for 
a  little  conversation,  in  order  that  she  may  be  free  to  talk  over 
certain  naughty  bits  of  scandal  with  Mrs.  Van  Clupp  and 
Marcia. 

To-night  there  is  no  place  to  sit  down  in  all  the  grand 
extent  of  the  Winsleigh  drawing-rooms — puffy  old  dowagers 
occupy  the  sofas,  ottomans  and  chairs,  and  the  largest  and 
most  brilliant  portion  of  the  assemblage  are  standing,  grin- 
ning into  each  other's  faces  with  praiseworthy  and  polite  per- 
tinacity, and  talking  as  rapidly  as  though  their  lives  depended 
on  how  many  words  they  could  utter  within  the  space  of  two 
minutes.  Mrs.  Rush-Marvelle,  ]\Irs.  Van  Clupp  and  Marcia 
make  their  way  slowly  through  the  gabbling,  pushing,  smirk- 
ing crowd  till  they  form  a  part  of  the  little  coterie  immediately 
round  Lady  Winsleigh,  to  whom,  at  the  first  opportunity,  Mrs. 
Marvelle  whispers: 

"Have  they  come?" 

"The  modern  Paris  and  the  new  Helen?"  laughs  Lady 
Clara,  with  a  shrug  of  her  snowy  shoulders.  "No,  not  yet. 
Perhaps  they  won't  turn  up  at  all!  Marcia,  dear,  you  look 
quite  charming!    Where  is  Lord  Algy?" 

"I  guess  he's  not  a  thousand  miles  away!"  returns  Marcia, 
with  a  knowing  twinkle  of  her  dark  eyes.     "He'll  hang  round 


282  THELMA. 

here  presently!      Why — there's  Mr.  Lorimer  worrying  in  at 
the  door-way!" 

"Worrying  in"  is  scarcely  the  term  to  apply  to  the  polite 
but  determined  manner  in  which  George  Lorimer  coolly  elbows 
a  passage  among  the  heaving  bare  shoulders,  backs,  fat  arms, 
and  long  trains  that  seriously  obstruct  his  passage,  but  after 
some  trouble  he  succeeds  in  his  efforts  to  reach  his  fair  host- 
ess, who  receives  him  with  rather  a  supercilious  uplifting  of 
her  delicate  eyebrows. 

"Dear  me,  Mr.  Lorimer,  you  are  quite  a  stranger!"  she  ob- 
serves, somewhat  satirically.  "We  thought  you  had  made  up 
your  mind  to  settle  in  Norway!" 

"Did  you  really,  though!"  and  Lorimer  smiles  languidly. 
"I  wonder  at  that — for  you  knew  I  came  back  from  that  region 
in  the  August  of  last  year." 

"And  since  then  I  suppose  you  have  played  the  hermit?" 
inquires  her  ladyship,  indifferently,  unfurling  her  fan  of 
ostrich  feathers  and  waving  it  slowly  to  and  fro. 

"By  no  means!  I  went  off  to  Scotland  with  a  friend,  Alec 
Macfarlane,  and  had  some  excellent  shooting.  Then,  as  I 
never  permit  my  venerable  mamma  to  pass  the  winter  in 
London,  I  took  her  to  Nice,  from  which  delightful  spot  we 
returned  three  weeks  ago." 

Lady  Winsleigh  laughs.  "I  did  not  ask  you  for  a  categori- 
cal explanation  of  your  movements,  Mr.  Lorimer,"  she  says, 
lightly — "I'm  sure  I  hope  you  enjoyed  yourself?" 

He  bows  gravely.  "Thanks!  Yes — strange  to  say,  I  did 
manage  to  extract  a  little  pleasure  here  and  there  out  of  the 
universal  dryness  of  things." 

"Have  you  seen  your  friend.  Sir  Philip,  since  he  came  to 
town?"  asks  Mrs.  Rush-Marvelle,  in  her  stately  way. 

"Several  times.  I  have  dined  with  him  and  Lady  Erring- 
ton  frequently.     I  understand  they  are  to  be  here  to-night." 

Lady  Winsleigh  fans  herself  a  little  more  rapidly,  and  her 
full  crimson  lips  tighten  into  a  thin,  malicious  line. 

"Well,  I  asked  them,  of  course — as  a  matter  of  form,"  she 
says,  carelessly — "but  I  shall,  on  the  whole,  be  rather  relieved 
if  they  don't  come." 

A  curious  amused  look  comes  over  Lorimer's  face. 

"Indeed!    May  I  ask  why?" 

"I  should  think  the  reason  ought  to  be  perfectly  apparent  to 
you" — and  her  ladyship's  eyes  flashed  angrily.    "Sir  Philip  is 


THELMA.  283 

all  very  well — he  is  by  birth  a  gentleman — but  the  person  he 
has  married  is  not  a  lady,  and  it  is  an  exceedingly  unpleasant 
duty  for  me  to  have  to  receive  her." 

A  faint  tinge  of  color  flushes  Lorimer's  brow.  "I  think,"  he 
says,  slowly,  "I  think  you  will  find  yourself  mistaken,  Lady 
AVinsleigh.  I  believe — "  Here  he  pauses,  and  Mrs.  Kush- 
Marvelle  fixes  him  with  a  stony  stare. 

"Are  we  to  understand  that  she  is  educated?"  she  inquires, 
freezingly.    "Positively  well  educated?" 

Lorimer  laughs.  "Not  according  to  the  standard  of  modern 
fashionable  requirements!"  he  replies. 

Mrs.  Marvelle  snifi's  the  air  portentously — Lady  Clara  curls 
her  lip.  At  that  moment  everybody  makes  respectful  way  for 
one  of  the  most  important  guests  of  the  evening — a  broad- 
shouldered  man  of  careless  attire,  rough  hair,  fine  features, 
and  keen,  mischievous  eyes — a  man  of  whom  many  stand  in 
wholesome  awe — Beaufort  Lovelace,  or,  as  he  is  commonly 
called,  "Beau"  Lovelace,  a  brilliant  novelist,  critic,  and  piti- 
less satirist.  For  him  society  is  a  game — a  gay  humming-top 
which  he  spins  on  the  palm  of  his  hand  for  his  own  private 
amusement.  Once  a  scribbler  in  an  attic,  subsisting  bravely 
on  bread  and  cheese  and  hope,  he  now  lords  it  more  than  half 
the  year  in  a  palace  of  fairy-like  beauty  on  the  Lago  di  Como 
— and  he  is  precisely  the  same  person  who  was  formerly  dis- 
dained and  flouted  by  fair  ladies  because  his  clothes  were  poor 
and  shabby,  yet  for  whom  they  now  practice  all  the  arts  known 
to  their  sex  in  fruitless  endeavors  to  charm  and  conciliate  him. 
For  he  laughs  at  them  and  their  pretty  ways — and  his  laughter 
is  merciless.  His  arrowy  glance  discovers  the  "poudre  de 
riz"  on  their  blooming  cheeks — the  carmine  on  their  lips,  and 
the  "kohl"  on  their  eyelashes.  He  knows  purchased  hair  from 
the  natural  growth — and  he  has  a  cruel  eye  for  discerning  the 
artificial  contour  of  a  "made-up"  figure.  And  like  a  merry 
satyr  dancing  in  a  legendary  forest,  he  capers  and  gambols  in 
the  vast  fields  of  Humbug — all  forms  of  it  are  attacked  and 
ridiculed  by  his  powerful  and  pungent  pen — he  is  a  sort  of 
English  Heine  gathering  in  rich  and  daily  harvests  from  the 
never-perishing,  incessantly  growing  crop  of  fools.  And  as 
he — in  all  the  wickedness  of  daring  and  superior  intellect — 
approaches.  Lady  Winsleigh  draws  herself  up  with  the  con- 
scious air  of  a  beauty  who  knows  she  is  nearly  perfect — Mrs. 
Kush-Marvelle  makes  a  faint  endeavor  to  settle  the  lace  more 


284  THELMA. 

modestly  over  her  rebellious  bosom — Marcia  smiles  coquet- 
tishly,  and  Mrs.  Van  Clupp  brings  her  diamond  pendant 
(value,  a  thousand  guineas)  more  prominently  forward — for  as 
she  thinks,  poor  ignorant  soul!  "wealth  always  impresses 
these  literary  men  more  than  anything!"  In  one  swift  glance 
Beau  Lovelace  observes  all  these  different  movements — and 
the  inner  fountain  of  his  mirth  begins  to  bubble.  "What 
fun  those  Van  Clupps  are!"  he  thinks.  "The  old  woman's 
got  a  diamond  plaster  on  her  neck!  Horrible  taste!  She's 
anxious  to  show  how  much  she's  worth,  I  suppose!  Mrs.  Mar- 
velle  wants  a  shawl,  and  Lady  Clara  a  bodice.  By  Jove! 
What  sights  the  women  do  make  of  themselves!" 

But  his  face  betrays  none  of  these  reflections — its  expression 
is  one  of  polite  gravity,  though  a  sudden  sweetness  smoothes 
it  as  he  shakes  hands  with  Lord  Winsleigh  and  Lorimer — a 
sweetness  that  shows  how  remarkably  handsome  Beau  can 
look  if  he  chooses.  He  rests  one  hand  on  Lorimer's  shoulder. 
"Why,  George,  old  boy,  I  thought  you  were  playing  the  duti- 
ful son  at  Nice?  Don't  tell  me  you've  deserted  the  dear  old 
lady!  Where  is  she?  You  know  I've  got  to  finish  that  argu- 
ment with  her  about  her  beloved  Byron." 

Lorimer  laughs.  "Go  and  finish  it  when  you  like.  Beau," 
he  answers.  "My  mother's  all  right.  She's  at  home.  You 
know  she's  always  charmed  to  see  you.  She's  delighted  with 
that  new  book  of  yours." 

"Is  she?    She  finds  pleasure  in  trifles,  then — " 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  Lovelace!"  interrupts  Lady  Clara,  with  a  win- 
ning glance.  "You  must  not  run  yourself  down!  The  book 
is  exquisite!  I  got  it  at  once  from  the  library  and  read  every 
line  of  it!" 

"I  am  exceedingly  flattered!"  says  Lovelace,  with  a  grave 
bow,  though  there  is  a  little  twinkling  mockery  in  his  glance. 
"When  a  lady  so  bewitching  condescends  to  read  what  I  have 
written,  how  can  I  express  my  emotion!" 

"The  press  is  unanimous  in  its  praise  of  you,"  remarks  Lord 
Winsleigh,  cordially.    ^TTou  are  quite  the  lion  of  the  day!" 

"Oh,  quite!"  agrees  Beau,  laughing.  "And  do  I  not  roar 
*as  sweet  as  any  nightingale'?  But  I  say,  where's  the  new 
beauty?" 

"I  really  do  not  know  to  whom  you  allude,  Mr.  Lovelace," 
replies  Lady  Winsleigh,  coldly.  Lorimer  smiles  and  is  silent. 
Beau  looks  from  one  to  the  other  amusedly. 


THELMA.  285 

"Perhaps  I've  made  a  mistake,"  he  says,  "but  the  Duke  of 
Eoxwell  is  responsible.  He  told  me  that  if  I  came  here  to- 
night I  should  see  one  of  the  loveliest  women  living — Lady 
Bruce-Errington.  He  saw  her  in  the  park.  I  think  this  gentle- 
man"— indicating  Sir  Francis  Lennox,  who  bit  his  mustache 
vexedly — "said  quite  openly  at  the  club  last  night  that  she 
was  the  new  beauty — and  that  she  would  be  here  this  evening." 

Lady  Winsleigh  darts  a  side  glance  at  her  "Lennie"  that  is 
far  from  pleasant. 

"Really  it's  perfectly  absurd!"  she  says,  with  a  scornful  toss 
of  her  head.  "We  shall  have  house-maids  and  bar-girls 
accepted  as  ''quite  the  rage'  next.  I  do  not  know  Sir  Philip's 
wife  in  the  least — I  hear  she  was  a  common  farmer's  daughter. 
I  certainly  invited  her  to-night  out  of  charity  and  kindness  in 
order  that  she  might  get  a  little  accustomed  to  society — for, 
of  course,  poor  creature!  entirely  ignorant  and  uneducated  as 
she  is,  everything  will  seem  strange  to  her.  But  she  has  not 
come — " 

"Sir  Philip  and  Lady  Bruce-Errington!"  announces  Briggs 
at  this  juncture. 

There  is  a  sudden  hush — a  movement  of  excitement — and 
the  group  near  the  door  fall  apart  staring  and  struck  momen- 
tarily dumb  with  surprise,  as  a  tall,  radiant  figure  in  dazzling 
white,  with  diamonds  flashing  on  a  glittering  coil  of  gold  hair, 
and  wondrous  sea-blue  earnest  eyes,  passes  through  their  midst 
with  that  royal  free  step  and  composed  grace  of  bearing  that 
might  distinguish  an  empress  of  many  nations. 

"Good  heavens!  What  a  magnificent  woman!"  mutters 
Beau  Lovelace — "Venus  realized!" 

Lady  Winsleigh  turns  very  pale — she  trembles  and  can 
scarcely  regain  her  usual  composure  as  Sir  Philip,  with  a 
proud  tenderness  lighting  up  the  depths  of  his  hazel  eyes,  leads 
this  vision  of  youth  and  perfect  loveliness  up  to  her,  saying 
simply: 

"Lady  Winsleigh,  allow  me  to  introduce  to  you — my  wife! 
Thelma,  this  is  Lady  Winsleigh!" 

There  is  a  strange  sensation  in  Lady  Winsleigh's  throat  as 
though  a  very  tight  string  were  suddenly  drawn  round  it  to 
almost  strangling  point — and  it  is  certain  that  she  feels  as 
though  she  must  scream,  hit  somebody  with  her  fan,  and  rush 
from  the  room  in  an  undignified  rage.    But  she  chokes  back 


286  THELMA. 

these  purely  feminine  emotions — she  smiles  and  extends  her 
jeweled  hand. 

"So  good  of  you  to  come  to-night!"  she  says,  sweetly.  "I 
have  been  longing  to  see  you.  Lady  Errington!  I  dare  say 
you  know  your  husband  is  quite  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine!" 

And  a  languorous  glance,  like  fire  seen  through  smoke,  leaps 
from  beneath  her  silky  eyelashes  at  Sir  Philip — but  he  sees  it 
not — he  is  chatting  and  laughing  gayly  with  Lorimer  and 
Beau  Lovelace. 

"Indeed,  yes!"  answers  Thelma,  in  that  soft,  low  voice  of 
hers,  which  has  such  a  thrilling  richness  within  it.  "And  it 
is  for  that  reason  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you.  It  is  always 
pleasant  for  me  to  know  my  husband's  friends." 

Here  she  raises  those  marvelous,  innocent  eyes  of  hers  and 
smiles — why  does  Lady  Winsleigh  shrink  from  that  frank  and 
child-like  openness  of  regard?  Why  does  she,  for  one  brief 
moment,  hate  herself? — why  does  she  so  suddenly  feel  herself 
to  be  vile  and  beneath  contempt?  God  only  knows! — but  the 
first  genuine  blush  that  has  tinged  her  ladyship's  cheek  for 
many  a  long  day  suddenly  spreads  a  hot  and  embarrassing 
tide  of  crimson  over  the  polished  pallor  of  her  satiny  skin,  and 
she  says  hurriedly: 

"I  must  find  you  some  people  to  talk  to.  This  is  my  dear 
friend,  Mrs.  Rush-Marvelle — I  am  sure  you  will  like  each 
other!  Let  me  introduce  Mrs.  Van  Clupp  to  you — Mrs.  Van 
Clupp,  and  Miss  Van  Clupp!" 

These  ladies  bow  stifiiy  while  Thelma  responds  to  their 
prim  salutations  with  easy  grace. 

"Sir  Francis  Lennox" — continues  Lady  Winsleigh,  and  there 
is  something  like  a  sneer  in  her  smile  as  that  gentleman 
makes  a  deep  and  courtly  reverence,  with  an  unmistakable 
look  of  admiration  in  his  sleepy  tiger-brown  ^eyes — then  she 
turns  to  Lord  Winsleigh  and  adds  in  a  casual  way:  "My  hus- 
band!" Lord  Winsleigh  advances  rather  eagerly — there  is  a 
charm  in  the  exquisite  nobility  of  Thelma's  face  that  touches 
his  heart  and  appeals  to  the  chivalrous  and  poetical  part  of  his 
nature. 

"Sir  Philip  and  I  have  known  each  other  for  some  years," 
he  says,  pressing  her  little  fair  hand  cordially.  "It  is  a  great 
pleasure  for  me  to  see  you  to-night,  Lady  Errington — I  realize 
how  very  much  my  friend  deserves  to  be  congratulated  on  his 
marriage!" 


THELMA.  287 

Thelma  smiles.  This  little  speech  pleases  her,  but  she  does 
not  accept  the  compliment  implied  to  herself. 

"You  are  very  kind.  Lord  Winsleigh,"  she  answers.  "I  am 
glad  indeed  that  you  like  Philip.  I  do  think  with  you  that  he 
deserves  every  one's  good  wishes.  It  is  my  great  desire  to 
make  him  always  happy." 

A  brief  shadow  crosses  Lord  Winsleigh's  thoughtful  brow, 
and  he  studies  her  sweet  eyes  attentively.  Is  she  sincere? 
Does  she  mean  what  she  says?  Or  is  she,  like  others  of  her 
sex,  merely  playing  a  graceful  part?  A  slight  sigh  escapes 
him — absolute  truth,  innocent  love,  and  stainless  purity  are 
written  in  such  fair  clear  lines  on  that  perfect  countenance 
that  the  mere  idea  of  questioning  her  sincerity  seems  a 
sacrilege. 

"Your  desire  is  gratified,  I  am  sure,"  he  returns,  and  his 
voice  is  somewhat  sad.  "I  never  saw  him  looking  so  well. 
He  seemed  in  excellent  spirits." 

"Oh,  for  that!"  and  she  laughs,  "He  is  a  very  light  hearted 
Boy!  But  once  he  would  tell  me  very  dreadful  things  about 
the  world — how  it  was  not  at  all  worth  living  in — but  I  do 
think  he  must  have  been  lonely.  For  he  is  very  pleased  with 
everything  now,  and  finds  no  fault  at  all!" 

"I  can  quite  understand  that!"  and  Lord  Winsleigh  smiles, 
though  that  shadow  of  pain  still  rests  on  his  brow. 

Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle  and  the  Van  Clupps  are  listening  to  the 
conversation  with  straining  ears.  What  strange  person  is 
this?  She  does  not  talk  bad  grammar,  though  her  manner  of 
expressing  herself  is  somewhat  quaint  and  foreign.  But  she 
is  babyish — perfectly  babyish!  The  idea  of  any  well-bred 
woman  condescending  to  sing  the  praises  of  her  own  husband 
in  public!  Absurd!  "Deserves  every  one's  good  wishes!" — 
pooh! — her  "great  desire  is  to  make  him  always  happy!" — what 
utter  rubbish! — and  he  is  a  "light-hearted  boy!"  Good  gra- 
cious!— what  next?  Marcia  Van  Clupp  is  strongly  inclined  to 
giggle,  and  Mrs.  Van  Clupp  is  indignantly  conscious  that  the 
Errington  diamonds  far  surpass  her  own,  both  for  size  and 
luster. 

At  that  moment  Sir  Philip  approaches  his  wife  with  George 
Lorimer  and  Beau  Lovelace.  Thelma's  smile  at  Lorimer  is 
the  greeting  of  an  old  friend — a  sun-bright  glance  that  makes 
his  heart  beat  a  little  quicker  than  usual.  He  watches  her  as 
she  turns  to  be  introduced  to  Lovelace — while  Miss  Van  Clupp, 


288  THELMA. 

thinking  of  the  relentless  gift  of  satire  with  which  that  bril- 
liant writer  is  endowed,  looks  out  for  "some  fun" — for,  as  she 
confides  in  a  low  tone  to  Mrs.  Marvelle,  "she'll  never  know 
how  to  talk  to  that  man!" 

"Thelma,"  says  Sir  Philip,  "this  is  the  celebrated  author, 
Beaufort  Lovelace — you  have  often  heard  me  speak  of  him." 

She  extends  both  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  deepen  and  flash. 
"Ah!  you  are  one  of  those  great  men  whom  we  all  love  and 
admire!"  she  says,  with  direct  frankness — and  the  cynical 
Beau,  who  has  never  yet  received  so  sincere  a  compliment, 
feels  himself  coloring  like  a  school-girl.  "I  am  so  very  proud 
to  meet  you!  I  have  read  your  wonderful  book,  'Azaziel,'  and 
it  made  me  glad  and  sorry  together.  For  why  do  you  draw  a 
noble  example  and  yet  say  at  the  same  time  that  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  follow  it?  Because  in  one  breath  you  inspire  us  to  be 
good,  and  yet  you  tell  us  we  shall  never  become  so!  That  is 
not  right — is  it?" 

Beau  meets  her  questioning  glance  with  a  grave  smile, 

"It  is  most  likely  entirely  wrong  from  your  point  of  view. 
Lady  Errington,"  he  said.  "Some  day  we  will  talk  over  the 
matter.  You  shall  show  me  the  error  of  my  ways.  Perhaps 
you  will  put  life,  and  the  troublesome  business  of  living,  in 
quite  a  new  light  for  me!  You  see,  we  novelists  have  an 
unfortunate  trick  of  looking  at  the  worst  or  most  ludicrous  side 
of  every-thing — we  can't  help  it!  So  many  apparently  lofty 
and  pathetic  tragedies  turn  out,  on  close  examination,  to  be 
the  meanest  and  most  miserable  of  farces — it's  no  good  mak- 
ing them  out  to  be  grand  Greek  poems  when  they  are  only 
base  doggerel  rhymes.  Besides,  it's  the  fashion  nowadays  to 
be  chiffonniers  in  literature — to  pick  up  the  rags  of  life  and 
sort  them  in  all  their  uncomeliness  before  the  morbid  eyes  of 
the  public.  What's  the  use  of  spending  thought  and  care  on 
the  manufacture  of  a  jeweled  diadem,  and  offering  it  to  the 
people  on  a  velvet  cushion,  when  they  prefer  an  olla-podrida  of 
cast-off-clothing,  dried  bones,  and  candle-ends?  In  brief,  what 
would  avail  to  write  as  grandly  as  Shakespeare  or  Scott,  when 
society  clamors  for  Zola  and  others  of  his  school?" 

There  was  a  little  group  round  them  by  this  time — men 
generally  collected  wherever  Beau  Lovelace  aired  his  opinions 
■ — and  a  double  attraction  drew  them  together  now  in  the  per- 
son of  the  lovely  woman  to  whom  he  was  holding  forth. 
Marcia  Van  Clupp  stared  mightily — surely  the  Norwegian 


THELMA.  289 

peasant  would  not  understand  Beau's  similes — for  they  were 
certainly  incomprehensible  to  Marcia.  As  for  his  last  remark 
— why!  she  had  read  all  Zola's  novels  in  the  secrecy  of  her 
own  room,  and  had  gloated  over  them — no  words  could  de- 
scribe her  intense  admiration  of  books  that  were  so  indelicately 
realistic!  "He  is  jealous  of  other  writers,  I  suppose,"  she 
thought;  "these  literary  people  hate  each  other  like  poison." 

Meanwhile  Thelma's  blue  eyes  looked  puzzled,  "I  do  not 
know  that  name,"  she  said.  "Zola ! — what  is  he  ?  He  can  not 
be  great.  Shakespeare  I  know — he  is  the  glory  of  all  the 
world,  of  course — I  think  him  as  noble  as  Homer.  Then  for 
Walter  Scott — I  love  all  his  beautiful  stories — I  have  read 
them  many,  many  times,  nearly  as  often  as  I  have  read  Homer 
and  the  Norse  Sagas.  And  the  world  must  surely  love  such 
writings — or  how  should  they  last  so  long?"  She  laughed  and 
shook  her  bright  head  archly.  "CJdffonnier!  Point  dutoid! 
Monsieur y  les  divines  pensees  que  vous  avez  donnees  au  monde 
ne  sont pas  des  chiffons." 

Beau  smiled  again,  and  offered  her  his  arm.  "Let  me  find 
you  a  chair!"  he  said.  "It  will  be  rather  a  difficult  matter — 
still  I  can  but  try.  You  will  be  fatigued  if  you  stand  too 
long."  And  he  moved  through  the  swaying  crowd,  with  her 
little  gloved  hand  resting  lightly  on  his  coat-sleeve — while 
Marcia  Van  Clupp  and  her  mother  exchanged  looks  of  wonder 
and  dismay.  The  "fisherwoman"  could  speak  French — more- 
over, she  could  speak  it  with  a  wonderfully  soft  and  perfect 
accent — the  "person"  had  studied  Homer  and  Shakespeare, 
and  was  conversant  with  the  best  literature — and,  bitterest 
sting  of  all,  the  "peasant"  could  give  every  woman  in  the  room 
a  lesson  in  deportment,  grace,  and  perfect  taste  in  dress.  Every 
costume  looked  tawdry  beside  her  richly  flowing  velvet 
draperies — every  low  bodice  became  indecent  compared  with 
the  modesty  of  that  small  square  opening  at  Thelma's  white 
throat — an  opening  just  sufficient  to  display  her  collar  of  dia- 
monds— and  every  figure  seemed  either  dumpy  and  awkward, 
too  big  or  too  fat,  or  too  lean  and  too  lanky — when  brought 
into  contrast  with  her  statuesque  outlines. 

The  die  was  cast — the  authority  of  Beau  Lovelace  was  near- 
ly supreme  in  fashionable  and  artistic  circles,  and  from  the 
moment  he  was  seen  devoting  his  attention  to  the  "new 
beauty,"  excited  whispers  began  to  flit  from  mouth  to  mouth — 
"She  will  be  the  rage  this  season!" — "We  must  ask  her  to 
Id 


290  THELMA. 

come  to  us  I" — "Do  ask  Lady  Winsleigh  to  introduce  usl" — 
"She  must  come  to  our  house!"  and  so  on.  And  Lady  Wins- 
leigh was  neither  blind  nor  deaf — she  saw  and  heard  plainly 
enough  that  her  reign  was  over,  and  in  her  secret  soul  she  was 
furious.  .  The  "common  farmer's  daughter"  was  neither  vul- 
gar nor  uneducated — and  she  was  surpassingly  lovely — even 
Lady  Winsleigh  could  not  deny  so  plain  and  absolute  a  fact. 
But  her  ladyship  was  a  woman  of  the  world,  and  she  perceived 
at  once  that  Thelma  was  not.  Philip  had  married  a  creature 
with  the  bodily  loveliness  of  a  goddess  and  the  innocent  soul 
of  a  child — and  it  was  Just  that  child-like,  pure  soul  looking 
serenely  out  of  Thelma's  eyes  that  had  brought  the  long-for- 
gotten blush  of  shame  to  Clara  Winsleigh's  cheek.  But  that 
feeling  of  self-contempt  soon  passed — she  was  no  better  and 
no  worse  than  other  women  of  her  set,  she  thought — after  all, 
what  had  she  to  be  ashamed  of?  Nothing,  except — except — 
perhaps,  her  "little  affair"  with  "Lennie."  A  new  emotion 
now  stirred  her  blood — one  of  malice  and  hatred,  mingled  with 
a  sense  of  outraged  love  and  ungratified  passion — for  she  still 
admired  Philip  to  a  foolish  excess.  Her  dark  eyes  flashed 
scornfully  as  she  noted  the  attitude  of  Sir  Francis  Lennox — he 
was  leaning  against  the  marble  mantel-piece,  stroking  his 
mustache  with  one  hand,  absorbed  in  watching  Thelma,  who, 
seated  in  an  easy-chair  which  Beau  Lovelace  had  found  for 
her,  was  talking  and  laughing  gayly  with  those  immediately 
around  her,  a  group  which  increased  in  size  every  moment,  and 
in  which  the  men  were  most  predominant. 

"Fool!"  muttered  Lady  Winsleigh  to  herself,  apostrophizing 
"Lennie"  in  this  uncomplimentary  manner.  "Fool!  I  won- 
der if  he  thinks  I  care!  He  may  play  hired  lackey  to  all  the 
women  in  London  if  he  likes!  He  looks  a  prig  compared  to 
Philip!" 

And  her  gaze  wandered — Philip  was  standing  by  his  wife, 
engaged  in  an  animated  conversation  with  Lord  Winsleigh. 
They  were  all  near  the  grand  piano — and  Lady  Clara,  smooth- 
ing her  vexed  brow,  swept  her  ruby  velvets  gracefully  up  to 
that  quarter  of  the  room.  Before  she  could  speak,  the  cele- 
brated Herr  Machtenklinken  confronted  her  with  some  stern- 
ness. 

"Your  ladyshib  vill  do  me  ze  kindness  to  remember,"  he 
said,  loftily,  "zat  I  am  here  to  blay!  Zere  has  been  no  obbor- 
tunity — ze  biano  could  not  make  itself  to  be  heard  in  zis  fery 


THELMA.  291 

moch  noise.  It  is  bossible  your  ladyshib  shall  require  not  ze 
music  zis  efening?  In  zat  case  I  shall  take  my  fery  goot 
leave/* 

Lady  Winsleigh  raised  her  eyes  with  much  superciliousness, 

"As  you  please/'  she  said,  coolly.  "If  you  are  so  indifferent 
to  your  advantages — then  all  I  can  say  is,  so  am  I!  You  are, 
perhaps,  known  on  the  Continent,  Herr  Machtenklinken — but 
not  here — and  I  think  you  ought  to  be  more  grateful  for  my 
influence.'' 

So  saying,  she  passed  on,  leaving  the  luckless  pianist  in  a 
state  of  the  greatest  indignation. 

*'Oott  im  Himmeir  he  gasped,  in  a  sort  of  infuriated  sotto 
voce.  "Ze  emberor  himself  would  not  have  speak  to  me  so! 
I  come  here  as  a  favor — her  ladyshib  do  not  offer  me  one 
pfennig — ach!  ze  music  is  not  for  such  beoble!  I  shall  brefer 
to  blay  to  bigs!    Zere  is  no  art  in  zis  country — " 

And  he  began  to  make  his  way  out  of  the  room,  when  he 
was  overtaken  by  Beau  Lovelace,  who  had  followed  him  in 
haste. 

'^here  are  you  off  to,  Hermann?"  he  asked,  good-na- 
turedly. "We  want  you  to  play.  There  is  a  lady  here  who 
heard  3'^ou  in  Paris  quite  recently — she  admires  you  im- 
mensely.   Won't  you  come  and  be  introduced  to  her?" 

Herr  Machtenklinken  paused,  and  a  smile  softened  his 
hitherto  angry  countenance. 

"You  are  fery  goot,  Mr.  Lofelace,"  he  remarked — "and  I 
would  do  much  for  you — but  her  ladyshib  understands  me  not 
— she  has  offend  me — it  is  better  I  should  take  my  leave." 

"Oh,  bother  her  ladyship!"  said  Beau,  lightly.  "Come 
along — and  give  us  something  in  your  best  style." 

So  saying,  he  led  the  half -reluctant  artist  back  to  the  piano, 
where  he  was  introduced  to  Thelma,  who  gave  him  so  sweet 
a  smile  that  he  was  fairly  dazzled. 

"It  is  you  who  play  Schumann  so  beautifully,"  she  said. 
"My  husband  and  I  heard  you  at  one  of  Lamoureaux's  con- 
certs in  Paris.  I  fear,"  and  she  looked  wistfully  at  him,  "that 
you  would  think  it  very  rude  and  selfish  of  me  if  I  asked  you 
to  play  just  one  little  piece?  Because,  of  course,  you  are  here 
to  enjoy  yourself,  and  talk  to  your  friends,  and  it  seems  unkind 
to  take  you  away  from  them!" 

A  strange  moisture  dimmed  the  poor  German's  eyes.  This 
was  the  first  time  in  England  that  the  "celebrate"  had  been 


292  THELMA. 

treated  as  a  friend  and  a  gentleman.  Up  to  this  moment,  at 
all  the  "at  homes"  and  "assemblies,"  he  had  not  been  consid- 
ered as  a  guest  at  all — he  was  an  "artist,"  "a  good  pianist" — 
"a  man  who  had  played  before  the  Emperor  of  Germany" — 
and  he  was  expected  to  perform  for  nothing,  and  be  grateful 
for  the  "influence"  exercised  on  his  behalf — influence  which  as 
yet  had  not  put  one  single  extra  guinea  in  his  pocket.  Now, 
here  was  a  great  lady  almost  apologizing  for  asking  him  to 
play,  lest  it  should  take  him  away  from  his  "friends!"  His 
heart  swelled  with  emotion  and  gratitude — the  poor  fellow 
had  no  "friends"  in  London,  except  Beau  Lovelace,  who  was 
kind  to  him,  but  who  had  no  power  in  the  musical  world — and 
as  Thelma's  gentle  voice  addressed  him,  he  eould  have  knelt 
and  kissed  her  little  shoe  for  her  sweet  courtesy  and  kindness. 

"Miladi,"  he  said,  Avith  a  profound  reverence.  "I  will  blay 
for  you  with  bleasure — it  will  be  a  joy  for  ze  music  to  make 
itself  beautiful  for  you!" 

And  with  this  fantastic  attempt  at  a  compliment,  he  seated 
himself  at  the  instrument  and  struck  a  crashing  chord  to  com- 
mand silence. 

The  hum  of  conversation  grew  louder  than  ever — and  to 
Thelma's  surprise  Lady  Winsleigh  seated  herself  by  her  and 
began  to  converse.  Herr  Machtenkhnken  struck  another 
chord — in  vain!  The  deafening  clamor  of  tongues  continued, 
and  Lady  Winsleigh  asked  Thelma  with  much  seeming  inter- 
est if  the  scenery  was  very  romantic  in  Norway. 

The  girl  colored  deeply,  and  after  a  little  hesitation,  said: 

"Excuse  me — I  would  rather  not  speak  till  the  music  is  over. 
It  is  impossible  for  a  great  musician  to  think  his  thoughts  out 
properly  unless  there  is  silence.  Would  it  not  be  better  to 
ask  every  one  to  leave  off  talking  while  this  gentleman  plays?" 

Clara  Winsleigh  looked  amused.  "My  dear,  you  don't 
know  them,"  she  said,  carelessly.  "They  would  think  me 
mad  to  propose  such  a  thing!  There  are  always  a  few  who 
listen." 

Once  more  the  pianist  poised  his  hands  over  the  keys  of  the 
instrument — Thelma  looked  a  little  troubled  and  grieved. 
Beau  Lovelace  saw  it,  and  acting  on  a  sudden  impulse,  turned 
toward  the  chattering  crowds,  and,  holding  up  his  hand, 
called,  "Silence,  please!" 

There  was  an  astonished  hush.  Beau  laughed.  "We  want 
to  hear  some  music,"  he    said,    with    the    utmost    coolness. 


THELMA.  293 

"Conversation  can  be  continued  afterward."  He  then  nodded 
cheerfully  toward  Herr  Machtenklinken,  who,  inspired  by  this 
open  encouragement,  started  oif  like  a  race-horse  into  one  of 
ilie  exquisite  rambling  preludes  of  Chopin.  Gradually,  as  he 
played,  his  plain  face  took  upon  itself  a  noble,  thoughtful,  rapt 
expression — his  wild  eyes  softened,  his  furrowed,  frowning 
brow  smoothed,  and,  meeting  the  grave,  rare  blue  eyes  of 
Thelma,  he  smiled.  His  touch  grew  more  and  more  delicate 
and  tender — from  the  prelude  he  wandered  into  a  nocturne  of 
plaintive  and  exceeding  melancholy,  which  he  played  with 
thrilling  and  exquisite  pathos — anon,  he  glided  into  one  of 
those  dreamily  joyous  yet  sorrowful  mazurkas  that  remind 
one  of  bright  flowers  growing  in  wild  luxuriance  over  lonely 
and  forsaken  graves.  The  "celebrate"  had  reason  to  boast  of 
himself — he  was  a  perfect  master  of  the  instrument — and  as 
his  fingers  closed  on  the  final  chord,  a  hearty  burst  of  applause 
rewarded  his  efforts,  led  by  Lovelace  and  Lorimer.  He  re- 
sponded by  the  usual  bow — but  his  real  gratitude  was  all  for 
Thelma.  For  her  he  had  played  his  best — and  he  had  seen 
tears  in  her  lovely  eyes.  He  felt  as  proud  of  her  appreciation 
as  of  the  ring  he  had  received  from  the  Czar — and  bent  low 
over  the  fair  hand  she  extended  to  him. 

"You  must  be  very  happy,"  she  said,  "to  feel  all  those  lovely 
sounds  in  your  heart!  I  hope  I  shall  see  and  hear  you  again 
some  day — I  thank  you  so  very  much  for  the  pleasure  you 
have  given  me!" 

Lady  Winsleigh  said  nothing — and  she  listened  to  Thelma's 
words  with  a  sort  of  contempt. 

"Is  the  girl  half-witted?"  she  thought.  "She  must  be,  or 
she  would  not  be  so  absurdly  enthusiastic!  The  man  plays 
well — but  it  is  his  profession  to  play  well — ^it's  no  good  prais- 
ing these  sort  of  people — they  are  never  grateful,  and  they 
always  impose  upon  you."    Aloud  she  asked  Sir  Philip: 

"Does  Lady  En-ington  play?" 

"A  little,"  he  answered.    "She  sings." 

At  once  there  was  a  chorus  of  inanely  polite  voices  round 
the  piano,  "Oh,  do  sing.  Lady  Errington!  Please  give  us  one 
song!"  and  Sir  Francis  Lennox,  sauntering  up,  fixed  his  lan- 
guorous gaze  on  Thelma's  face,  murmuring,  "You  will  not  be 
so  cruel  as  to  refuse  us  such  deHght?" 

"'No,  of  course  not!"  answered  the  girl,  greatly  surprised  at 
all  these  unnecessary  entreaties.     "1  am  always  pleased   to 


294  THELMA. 

sing/'  And  she  drew  off  her  long  loose  gloves  and  seated  her- 
self at  the  piano  without  the  least  affectation  of  reluctance. 
Then,  glancing  at  her  husband  with  a  bright  smile,  she  asked, 
"What  song  do  you  think  will  be  best,  Philip?" 

"One  of  those  old  Norse  mountain  songs,"  he  answered. 

She  played  a  soft  minor  prelude — there  was  not  a  sound  in 
the  room  now — everybody  pressed  toward  the  piano,  staring 
with  a  curious  fascination  at  her  beautiful  face  and  diamond- 
crowned  hair.  One  moment — and  her  voice,  in  all  its  passion- 
ate, glorious  fullness  rang  out  with  a  fresh  vibrating  tone  that 
thrilled  to  the  very  heart — and  the  foolish  crowd  that  gaped 
and  listened  was  speechless,  motionless,  astonished,  and  be- 
wildered. 

A  Norse  mountain  song,  was  it?  How  strange,  and  grand, 
and  wild!  George  Lorimer  stood  apart — his  eyes  ached  with 
restrained  tears.  He  knew  the  melody  well — and  up  before 
him  rose  the  drear  solemnity  of  the  Altenguard  hills,  the 
glittering  expanse  of  the  fjord,  the  dear  old  farm-house  behind 
its  cluster  of  pines.  Again  he  saw  Thelma  as  he  had  seen  her 
first — clad  in  her  plain  white  gown,  spinning  in  the  dark  em- 
brasure of  the  rose-wreathed  window — again  the  words  of  the 
self-destroyed  Sigurd  came  back  to  his  recollection,  "Good 
things  may  come  for  others — but  for  you  the  heavens  are 
empty!"  He  looked  at  her  now — Philip's  wife — in  all  the 
splendor  of  her  rich  attire — she  was  lovelier  than  ever,  and 
her  sweet  nature  was  as  yet  unspoiled  by  all  the  wealth  and 
luxury  around  her. 

"Good  God!  what  an  inferno  she  has  come  into!"  he 
thought,  vaguely.  "How  will  she  stand  these  people  when 
she  gets  to  know  them?  The  Van  Clupps,  the  Eush-Marvelles, 
and  others  like  them — and  as  for  Clara  Winsleigh — "  He 
turned  to  study  her  ladyship  attentively.  She  was  sitting 
quite  close  to  the  piano — her  eyes  were  cast  down,  but  the 
rubies  on  her  bosom  heaved  quickly  and  restlessly,  and  she 
furled  and  unfurled  her  fan  impatiently.  "I  shouldn't  won- 
der," he  went  on,  meditating  gravely,  "if  she  doesn't  try  and 
make  some  mischief  somehow.     She  looks  it." 

At  that  moment  Thelma  ceased  singing,  and  the  room  rang 
with  applause.  Herr  Matchtenklinken  was  overcome  with 
admiration. 

"It  is  a  voice  of  heaven!"  he  said  in  a  rapture. 

The  fair  singer  was  surrounded  with  people. 


THELMA.  295 


«l 


^I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Vaii  Clupp,  with  her  usual  ill-bred  eager- 
ness to  ingratiate  herself  with  the  titled  and  wealthy,  "I  hope 
you  will  come  and  see  me.  Lady  Errington.  I  am  at  home 
every  Friday  evening  to  my  friends." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Thelma,  simply.  "But  I  am  not  your 
friend  yet!  When  we  do  know  each  other  better  I  will  come. 
We  shall  meet  each  other  many  times  first — and  then  you  will 
see  if  you  like  me  to  be  your  friend.    Is  it  not  so?" 

A  scarcely  concealed  smile  reflected  itself  on  the  faces  of  all 
who  heard  this  naive  but  indefinite  acceptance  of  Mrs.  Van 
Clupp's  invitation,  while  Mrs.  Van  Clupp  herself  was  some- 
what mortified,  and  knew  not  what  to  answer.  This  Nor- 
wegian girl  was  evidently  quite  ignorant  of  the  usages  of 
polite  society,  or  she  would  at  once  have  recognized  the  fact 
that  an  "at  home"  had  nothing  whatsoever  to  do  with  the 
obligations  "of  friendship — besides,  as  far  as  friendship  was 
concerned,  had  not  Mrs.  Van  Clupp  tabooed  several  of  her  own 
blood-relations  and  former  intimate  acquaintances,  for  the 
very  sensible  reason  that  while  she  had  grown  richer  they  had 
grown  poorer?  But  now  Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle  sailed  up  in  all 
her  glory,  with  her  good-natured  smile  and  matronly  air.  She 
was  a  privileged  person,  and  she  put  her  arm  around  Thelma's 
waist. 

"You  must  come  to  me,  my  dear,"  she  said  with  real  kind- 
ness— her  motherly  heart  had  warmed  to  the  girl's  beauty  and 
innocence — "I  knew  Philip  when  he  was  quite  a  boy.  He  will 
tell  you  what  a  dreadfully  old  woman  I  am!  You  must  try  to 
like  me  for  his  sake." 

Thelma  smiled  radiantly.  "I  always  wish  to  like  Philip's 
friends,"  she  said,  frankly.    "I  do  hope  I  shall  please  you!" 

A  pang  of  remorse  smote  Mrs.  Rush-Marvelle's  heart  as  she 
remembered  how  loath  she  had  been  to  meet  Philip's  "peas- 
ant" wife — she  hesitated — then,  yielding  to  her  warm  impulse, 
drew  the  girl  closer  and  kissed  her  fair  rose-tinted  cheek. 

"You  please  everybody,  my  child,"  she  said,  honestly. 
"Philip  is  a  lucky  man!  Now  I'll  say  good-night,  for  it  is 
getting  late — I'll  write  to  you  to-morrow  and  fix  a  day  for  you 
to  come  and  lunch  with  me." 

"But  you  must  also  come  and  see  Philip,"  returned  Thelma, 
pressing  her  hand. 

"So  I  will— so  I  will!"  and  Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle  nodded 


296  THEL.MA. 

beamingly,  and  made  her  way  up  to  Lady  Winsleigh,  saying, 
"By-by,  Clara!    Thanks  for  a  most  charming  evening!" 

Clara  pouted.  "Going  already,  Mimsey?"  she  queried — 
then,  in  a  lower  tone,  she  said,  "Well!  what  do  you  think  of 
her?" 

"A  beautiful  child — no  more!"  answered  Mrs.  Marvelle — 
then,  studying  with  some  gravity  the  brilliant  brunette  face 
before  her,  she  added  in  a  whisper,  "Leave  her  alone,  Clara — 
don't  make  her  miserable!  You  know  what  I  mean!  It 
wouldn't  take  much  to  break  her  heart!" 

Clara  laughed  harshly  and  played  with  her  fan. 

"Dear  me,  Mimsey!  you  are  perfectly  outrageous!  Do  you 
think  I'm  an  ogress  ready  to  eat  her  up?  On  the  contrary,  I 
mean  to  be  a  friend  to  her." 

Mrs.  Marvelle  still  looked  grave. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  she  said;  "only  some  friends  are  worse 
than  declared  enemies." 

Lady  Winsleigh  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Go  along,  Mimsey — go  home  to  bed!"  she  exclaimed,  im- 
patiently. "You  are  intense!  I  hate  sentimental  philosophy 
and  copy-book  platitudes!"  She  laughed  again  and  folded  her 
hands  with  an  air  of  mock  penitence.  "There!  I  didn't  mean 
to  be  rude!  Good-night,  dear  old  darling!" 

"Good-night,  Clara!"  and  Mrs.  Marvelle,  summoning  her 
timid  husband  from  some  far  corner,  where  he  had  remained 
in  hiding,  took  her  departure  with  much  stateliness. 

A  great  many  people  were  going  down  to  supper  by  this 
time,  but  Sir  Philip  was  tired  of  the  heat  and  glare  and  noise, 
and  whispered  as  much  to  Thelma,  who  at  once  advanced  to 
bid  her  hostess  farewell. 

"Won't  you  have  some  supper?"  inquired  her  ladyship. 
"Don't  go  yet!" 

But  Thelma  was  determined  not  to  detain  her  husband  a 
moment  longer  than  he  wished — so  Lady  Winsleigh,  seeing 
remonstrances  were  of  no  avail,  bade  them  both  an  effusive 
good-night. 

"We  must  see  a  great  deal  of  each  other!"  she  said,  pressing 
Thelma's  hands  warmly  in  her  own;  "I  hope  we  shall  be  quite 
dear  friends!" 

"Thank  you!"  said  Thelma,  "I  do  hope  so  too,  if  you  wish 
it  so  much.     Good-night,  Lord  Winsleigh!" 


THELMA.  297 

"Let  me  escort  you  to  your  carriage,"  said  her  noble  host, 
at  once  offering  her  his  arm. 

"And  allow  me  to  follow,"  added  Beau  Lovelace,  slipping 
his  arm  through  Errington's,  to  whom  he  whispered,  "How 
dare  you,  sir!  How  dare  you  be  such  a  provokingly  happy 
man  in  this  miserable  old  world?"  Errington  laughed — and  the 
little  group  had  just  reached  the  door  of  the  drawing-room 
when  Thelma  suddenly  turned  with  a  look  of  inquiry  in  her 
eyes. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Lorimer?"  she  said.  "I  have  forgotten  to 
say  good-night  to  him,  Philip." 

"Here  I  am.  Lady  Errington,"  and  Lorimer  sauntered  for- 
ward with  rather  a  forced  smile — a  smile  which  altogether 
vanished,  leaving  his  face  strangely  pale,  as  she  stretched  out 
her  hand  to  him,  and  said  laughingly: 

"You  bad  Mr.  Lorimer!  Where  were  you?  You  know  it 
would  make  me  quite  unhappy  not  to  wish  you  good-night. 
Ah,  you  are  a  very  naughty  brother!" 

"Come  home  with  us,  George,"  said  Sir  Philip,  eagerly. 
"Do,  there's  a  good  fellow!" 

"I  can't,  Phil!"  answered  Lorimer,  almost  pathetically.  "I 
can't  to-night — indeed,  I  can't!  Don't  ask  me!"  And  he 
wrung  his  friend's  hand — and  then  bravely  met  Thelma's 
bright  glance. 

"Forgive  me!"  he  said  to  her.  "I  know  I  ought  to  have 
presented  myself  before — I'm  a  dreadfully  lazy  fellow,  you 
know!     Good-night!" 

Thelma  regarded  him  steadfastly. 

"You  look — what  is  it  you  call  yourself  sometimes — seedy?" 
she  observed.  "Not  well  at  all.  Mind  you  come  to  us  to- 
morrow!" 

He  promised — and  then  accompanied  them  down  to  their 
carriage — he  and  Beau  Lovelace  assisting  to  cover  Thelma 
with  her  fur  cloak,  and  being  the  last  to  shake  hands  with  Sir 
Philip  as  he  sprung  in  beside  his  wife,  and  called  to  the  coach- 
man "Home!"  The  magic  word  seemed  to  affect  the  horses, 
for  they  started  at  a  brisk  trot,  and  within  a  couple  of  minutes 
the  carriage  was  out  of  sight.  It  was  a  warm  star-lighted 
evening — and  as  Lorimer  and  Lovelace  re-entered  Winsleigh 
House,  Beau  stole  a  side  glance  at  his  silent  companion. 

"A  plucky  fellow!"  he  mused;  "I  should  say  he'd  die  game. 
Tortures  won't  wring  his  secret  out  of  him."    Aloud  he  said: 


298  THBLMA. 

"I  say,  haven't  we  had  enough  of  this?  Don't  let  ns  sup  here 
— nothing  but  unsubstantial  pastry  and  claret-cup — ^the  latter 
abominable  mixture  would  kill  me.  Come  on  to  the  Club,  will 
you?" 

Lorimer  gladly  assented — they  got  their  overcoats  from  the 
officious  Briggs,  tipped  him  handsomely,  and  departed  arm  in 
arm.  The  last  glimpse  they  caught  of  the  Winsleigh  festivi- 
ties was  Marcia  Van  Clupp  sitting  on  the  stairs,  polishing  off 
with  much  gusto  the  wing  and  half  breast  of  a  capon — while 
the  mild  Lord  Masherville  stood  on  the  step  just  above  her, 
consoling  his  appetite  with  a  spoonful  of  tepid  yellow  jelly. 
He  had  not  been  able  to  secure  any  capon  for  himself — he  had 
been  frightened  away  by  the  warning  cry  of  "Ladies  first!" 
shouted  forth  by  a  fat  gentleman,  who  was  on  guard  at  the 
head  of  the  supper-table,  and  who  had  already  secreted  five 
plates  of  different  edibles  for  his  own  consumption  in  a  near 
corner  behind  the  window-curtains.  Meanwhile,  Sir  Philip 
Bruce-Errington,  proud,  happy,  and  triumphant,  drew  his  wife 
into  a  close  embrace  as  they  drove  home  together,  and  said, 
"You  were  the  queen  of  the  evening,  my  Thelma!  Have  you 
enjoyed  yourself?" 

"Oh,  I  do  not  call  that  enjoyment!"  she  declared.  "How  is 
it  possible  to  enjoy  anything  among  so  many  strangers?" 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  asked,  laughingly. 

She  laughed  also.  "I  do  not  know  indeed  what  it  is!"  she 
said.  "I  have  never  been  to  anything  like  it  before.  It  did 
seem  to  me  as  if  all  the  people  were  on  show  for  some  reason 
or  other.  And  the  gentlemen  did  look  very  tired — ^there  was 
nothing  for  them  to  do.  Even  you,  my  boy!  You  made  sev- 
eral big  yawns!    Did  you  know  that?" 

Philip  laughed  more  than  ever.  "I  didn't  know  it,  my  pet!" 
he  answered;  "but  I'm  not  surprised.  Big  yawns  are  the  in- 
variable result  of  an  'at  home.'    Do  you  like  Beau  Lovelace?" 

"Very  much,"  she  answered,  readily.  "But,  Philip,  I  should 
not  like  to  have  so  many  friends  as  Lady  Winsleigh.  I 
thought  friends  were  rare?" 

"So  they  are!  She  doesn't  care  for  these  people  a  bit. 
They  are  mere  acquaintances." 

"Whom  does  she  care  for  then?"  asked  Thelma  suddenly. 
"Of  course  I  mean  after  her  husband.  Naturally  she  loves 
him  best." 

"Naturally,"  and  Philip  paused,  adding:    "She  has  her  son 


THELMA.  299 

— Ernest — he's  a  fine  bright  boy — he  was  not  there  to-night. 
You  must  see  him  some  day.  Then  I  think  her  favorite  friend 
is  Mrs.  Kush-Marvelle." 

"I  do  like  that  lady  too/'  said  Thelma.  "She  spoke  very 
kindly  to  me  and  kissed  me." 

"Did  she  really!"  and  Philip  smiled.  "I  think  she  was 
more  to  be  congratulated  on  taking  the  kiss  than  you  in  re- 
ceiving it!  But  she's  not  a  bad  old  soul — only  a  little  too 
fond  of  money.  But,  Thelma,  whom  do  you  care  for  most? 
You  did  tell  me  once,  but  I  forget!" 

She  turned  her  lovely  face  and  star-like  eyes  upon  him,  and, 
meeting  his  laughing  look,  she  smiled. 

"How  often  must  I  tell  you!"  she  murmured,  softly.  "I 
do  think  you  will  never  tire  of  hearing!  You  know  that  it  is 
you  for  whom  I  care  most  and  that  all  the  world  would  be 
empty  to  me  without  you!  Oh,  my  husband — my  darling!  do 
not  make  me  try  to  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you!  I  can  not 
■ — my  heart  is  too  full!" 

The  rest  of  their  drive  homeward  was  very  quiet — there 
are  times  when  silence  is  more  eloquent  than  speech. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

A  small  cloud — so  slight  as  to  be  a  mere  speck  on  the  fair 
blue  sky,  was  all  the  warning  we  received. — Pliny. 

After  that  evening  great  changes  came  into  Thelma's  be- 
fore peaceful  life.  She  had  conquered  her  enemies,  or  so  it 
seemed — society  threw  down  all  its  barricades  and  rushed  to 
meet  her  with  open  arms.  Invitations  crowded  upon  her — 
often  she  grew  tired  and  bewildered  in  the  multiplicity  of 
them  all.  London  life  wearied  her — she  preferred  the  em- 
bowered seclusion  of  Errington  Manor,  the  dear  old  house  in 
green-wooded  Warwickshire.  But  the  "season"  claimed  her — 
its  frothy  gayeties  were  deemed  incomplete  without  her — no 
"at  home"  was  considered  "the"  thing  unless  she  was  present. 
She  became  the  center  of  a  large  and  ever-widening  social 
circle — painters,  poets,  novelists,  wdts,  savants,  and  celebrities 
of  high  distinction  crowded  her  rooms,  striving  to  entertain 


fc 


300  THELMA. 

her  as  well  as  themselves  with  that  inane  small  talk  and  gos- 
sip too  often  practiced  by  the  wisest  among  us — and  thus  sur- 
rounded, she  began  to  learn  many  puzzling  and  painful  things 
of  which  in  her  old  Norwegian  life  she  had  been  happily 
ignorant. 

For  instance,  she  had  once  imagined  that  all  the  men  and 
women  of  culture  who  followed  the  higher  professions  must 
perforce  be  a  sort  of  "Joyous  Fraternity,"  superior  to  other 
mortals  not  so  gifted — and,  under  this  erroneous  impression, 
she  was  at  first  eager  to  know  some  of  the  so-called  "great" 
people  who  had  distinguished  themselves  in  literature  or  the 
fine  arts.  She  had  fancied  that  they  must  of  necessity  be  all 
refined,  sympathetic,  large-hearted,  and  noble-minded — alas! 
how  grievously  was  she  disappointed!  She  found,  to  her  sor- 
row, that  the  tree  of  modern  Art  bore  but  few  wholesome 
roses  and  many  cankered  buds — that  the  "Joyous  Fraternity" 
were  not  joyous  at  all — but  on  the  contrary,  inclined  to  dys- 
pepsia and  discontentment.  She  found  that  even  poets,  whom 
she  had  fondly  deemed  were  the  angel-guides  among  the  chil- 
dren of  this  earth — were  most  of  them  painfully  conceited, 
sejfish  in  aim  and  limited  in  thought — moreover,  that  they 
were  often  so  empty  of  all  true  inspiration  that  they  Avere 
actually  able  to  hate  and  envy  one  another  with  a  sort  of 
womanish  spite  and  temper — that  novelists,  professing  to  be 
in  sympathy  with  the  heart  of  humanity,  were  no  sooner 
brought  into  contact  one  with  another  than  they  plainly 
showed  by  look,  voice,  and  manner  the  contempt  they  enter- 
tained for  each  other's  work — that  men  of  science  were  never 
so  happy  as  when  trying  to  upset  each  other's  theories — that 
men  of  religious  combativeness  were  always  on  the  alert  to 
destroy  each  other's  creeds — and  that,  in  short,  there  was  a 
very  general  tendency  to  mean  jealousies,  miserable  heart- 
burnings and  utter  weariness  all  round. 

On  one  occasion  she,  in  the  sweetest  simplicity,  invited  two 
lady  authoresses  of  note  to  meet  at  one  of  her  "at  homes."  She 
welcomed  both  the  masculine-looking  ladies  with  a  radiant 
smile,  and  introduced  them,  saying  gently:  "You  will  be  so 
pleased  to  know  each  other!"  But  the  stony  stare,  stiff  nod, 
portentous  sniff,  and  scornful  smile  with  which  these  two 
eminent  females  exchanged  cold  greetings  were  enough  to 
daunt  the  most  sympathetic  hostess  that  ever  lived — and  when 
they  at  once  retired  to  different  corners  of  the  room  and  sat 


THELMA.  301 

apart  with  their  backs  turned  to  one  another  for  the  remainder 
of  the  evening,  their  attitude  was  so  uncompromising  that  it 
was  no  wonder  the  gentle  Thelma  felt  quite  dismayed  and 
wretched  at  the  utter  failure  of  the  rencontre. 

"They  would  not  be  sociable!"  she  afterward  complained 
to  Lady  Winsleigh.  "They  tried  to  be  as  rude  to  each  other 
as  they  could!" 

Lady  Winsleigh  laughed.  "Of  course!"  she  said.  "What 
else  did  you  expect!  But  if  you  want  some  fun,  ask  a  young, 
pretty  and  brilliant  authoress  (there  are  a  few  such)  to  meet 
an  old,  ugly  and  dowdy  one  (and  there  are  many  such),  and 
watch  the  dowdy  one's  face.  It  will  be  a  delicious  study  of 
expression,  I  assure  you!" 

But  Thelma  would  not  try  this  delicate  experiment — in  fact, 
she  began  rather  to  avoid  literary  people,  with  the  exception 
of  Beau  Lovelace.  His  was  a  genial,  sympathetic  nature, 
and,  moreover,  he  had  a  winning  charm  of  manner  which  few 
could  resist.  He  was  not  a  bookworm — he  was  not,  strictly 
speaking,  a  literary  man — and  he  was  entirely  indifferent  to 
public  praise  or  blame.  He  was,  as  he  himself  expressed  it, 
"a  servant  and  worshiper  of  literature,"  and  there  is  a  wide 
gulf  of  difference  between  one  who  serves  literature  for  its 
own  sake  and  one  who  uses  it  basely  as  a  tool  to  serve  himself. 

But  in  all  her  new  and  varied  experiences,  perhaps  Thelma 
was  most  completely  bewildered  by  the  women  she  met.  Her 
simple  Norse  beliefs  in  the  purity  and  gentleness  of  woman- 
hood were  startled  and  outraged — she  could  not  understand 
London  ladies  at  all.  Some  of  them  seemed  to  have  no  idea 
beyond  dress  and  show — others  looked  upon  their  husbands, 
the  lawful  protectors  of  their  name  and  fame,  with  easy  in- 
difference, as  though  they  were  mere  bits  of  household  furni- 
ture— others,  having  nothing  better  to  do,  "went  in"  for 
spiritualism — the  low  spiritualism  that  manifests  itself  in  the 
turning  of  tables  and  moving  of  sideboards — not  the  higher 
spiritualism  of  an  improved,  perfected,  and  saint-like  way  of 
life — and  these  argued  wildly  on  the  theory  of  matter  passing 
through  matter,  to  the  extent  of  declaring  themselves  able  to 
send  a  letter  or  box  through  the  wall  without  making  a  hole 
in  it — and  this  with  such  obstinate  gravity  as  made  Thelma 
fear  for  their  reason.  Then  there  were  the  women  atheists — 
creatures  who  had  voluntarily  crushed  all  the  sweetness  of  the 
sex  within  them — foolish  human  flowers  without  fragrance. 


302  THELMA. 

that  persistently  turned  away  their  faces  from  the  sunlight 
and  denied  its  existence,  preferring  to  wither,  profitless,  on 
the  dry  stalk  of  their  own  theory — there  were  the  "platform 
women,"  unnatural  products  of  an  unnatural  age — there  were 
the  great  ladies  of  the  aristocracy  who  turned  with  scorn  from 
a  case  of  real  necessity,  and  yet  spent  hundreds  of  pounds 
on  private  theatricals  wherein  they  might  have  the  chance  of 
displaying  themselves  in  extravagant  costumes — and  there 
were  the  "professional"  beauties,  who,  if  suddenly  deprived 
of  elegant  attire  and  face  cosmetics,  turned  out  to  be  no 
beauties  at  all,  but  very  ordinary,  unintelligent  persons. 

"What  is  the  exact  meaning  of  the  term,  'professional 
beauty'?"  Thelma  had  asked  Beau  Lovelace  on  one  occasion, 
"I  suppose  it  is  some  very  poor  beautiful  woman  who  takes 
money  for  showing  herself  to  the  public,  and  having  her  por- 
traits sold  in  the  shops?    And  who  is  it  that  pays  her?" 

Lovelace  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Upon  my  word.  Lady 
Errington — you  have  put  the  matter  in  a  most  original  but  in- 
dubitably correct  light!  Who  pays  the  'professional  beauty,' 
you  ask?  Well,  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Smith-Gresham,  whom  you 
met  the  other  day,  it  is  a  certain  duke  who  pays  her  to  the 
tune  of  several  thousands  a  year.  When  he  gets  tired  of  her, 
or  she  of  him,  she'll  find  somebody  else — or  perhaps  she'll  go 
on  the  stage  and  swell  the  list  of  bad  amateurs.  She'll  get  on 
somehow,  so  long  as  she  can  find  a  fool  ready  to  settle  her 
dress-maker's  bill." 

"I  do  not  understand!"  said  Thelma — and  her  fair  brows 
drew  together  in  that  pained  grave  look  that  was  becoming 
rather  frequent  with  her  now. 

And  she  began  to  ask  fewer  questions  concerning  the  vari- 
ous strange  phases  of  social  life  that  puzzled  her — why,  for 
instance,  religious  theorists  made  so  little  practical  use  of 
their  theories — why  there  were  cloudy-eyed  eccentrics  who 
admired  the  faulty  drawing  of  Watts,  and  the  commonplace 
sentence-writing  of  Walt  Whitman — why  members  of  Parlia- 
ment talked  so  much  and  did  so  little — why  new  poets,  how- 
ever nobly  inspired — were  never  accepted  unless  they  had  in- 
fluential friends  on  the  press — why  painters  always  married 
their  models  or  their  cooks,  and  got  heartily  ashamed  of  them 
afterward — and  why  people  all  round  said  so  many  things 
they  did  not  mean.  And  confused  by  the  general  insincerity, 
she  clung— poor  child!— to  Lady  Winsleigh,  who  had  the  tact 


THELMA.  303 

to  seem  what  she  was  not — and  the  cleverness  to  probe  into 
Thelma's  nature  and  find  out  how  translucently  clear  and  pure 
it  was — a  perfect  well  of  sweet  water  into  which  one  drop  of 
poison,  or  better  still,  several  drops,  gradually  and  insidiously 
instilled,  might  in  time  taint  its  flavor  and  darken  its  bright- 
ness. For  if  a  woman  have  an  innocent,  unsuspecting  soul, 
as  deb'cate  as  the  curled  cup  of  a  Nile-lily,  the  more  easily  will 
it  droop  and  wither  in  the  heated  grasp  of  a  careless,  cruel 
hand.  And  to  this  flower-crushing  task  Lady  Winsleigh  set 
herself — partly  for  malice  prepense  against  Errington,  whose 
coldness  to  herself  in  past  days  had  wounded  her  vanity,  and 
partly  for  private  jealousy  of  Thelma's  beauty  and  attractive- 
ness. 

Within  a  short  time  she  had  completely  won  the  girl's  con- 
fidence and  affection.  Sir  Philip,  forgetting  his  'former  sus- 
picions of  her,  was  touched  and  disarmed  by  the  attachment 
and  admiration  she  openly  displayed  toward  his  young  wife. 
She  and  Thelma  were  constantly  seen  together,  and  Mrs.  Kush- 
Marvelle,  far-sighted  as  she  generally  was,  often  sighed  doubt- 
fully and  rubbed  her  nose  in  perplexity  as  she  confessed  she 
"couldn't  quite  understand  Clara."  But  Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle 
had  her  hands  full  of  other  matters — she  was  aiding  and  abet- 
ting Marcia  Van  Clupp  to  set  traps  for  that  mild  mouse  Lord 
Masherville — and  she  was  too  much  absorbed  in  this  difficult 
and  delicate  business  to  attend  to  anything  else  just  then. 
Otherwise,  it  is  possible  she  might  have  scented  danger  for 
Thelma's  peace  of  mind,  and  being  good-natured,  might  have 
warded  it  off  before  it  approached  too  closely — but,  like  police- 
men who  are  never  within  call  when  wanted,  so  friends  are 
seldom  at  hand  when  their  influence  might  be  of  real  benefit. 

The  Van  Clupps  were  people  Thelma  could  not  get  on  with 
at  all — she  tried  to  do  so  because  Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle  had 
assured  her  they  were  "charming" — and  she  liked  Mrs.  Mar- 
velle  sufficiently  well  to  be  willing  to  please  her.  But,  in 
truth,  these  rich  and  vulgar  Yankees  seemed  to  her  mind  less 
to  be  esteemed  than  the  peasants  of  the  Alten  Fjord,  who  in 
many  instances  possessed  finer  tact  and  breeding  than  old  Van 
Clupp,  the  man  of  many  dollars,  whose  father  had  been  noth- 
ing but  a  low  navvy,  but  of  whom  he  spoke  now  with  smirking 
pride  as  a  real  descendant  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers.  An  odd 
thing  it  is,  by  the  way,  how  fond  some  Americans  are  of  trac- 
ing back  their  ancestry  to  these  virtuous  old  gentlemen!    The 


304  THELMA. 

Van  Clupps  were  of  course  not  the  best  types  of  their  country 
— they  were  of  that  class  who,  because  they  have  money, 
measure  everything  by  the  money  standard,  and  hold  even  a 
noble  poverty  in  utter  contempt.  Poor  Van  Clupp!  It  was 
sometimes  pitiable  to  see  him  trying  to  be  a  gentleman — 
"going  in"  for  "style" — to  an  excess  that  was  ludicrous — 
cramming  his  house  with  expensive  furniture  like  an  uphol- 
sterer's show-room — drinking  his  tea  out  of  pure  Sevres,  with 
a  lofty  ignorance  of  its  beauty  and  value — dressing  his  wife 
and  daughter  like  shilling  fashion-plates,  and  having  his  por- 
trait taken  in  precisely  the  same  attitude  as  that  assumed  by 
the  Duke  of  Wrigglesbury  when  his  grace  sat  to  the  same 
photographer!  It  was  delicious  to  hear  him  bragging  of  his 
pilgrim  ancestor — while  in  the  same  breath  he  would  blandly 
sneer  at  certain  "poor  gentry"  who  could  trace  back  their  line- 
age to  Coeur  de  Lion!  But  because  the  Erringtons  were  rich 
as  well  as  titled  persons.  Van  Clupp  and  liis  belongings  bent 
the  servile  knee  before  them,  flattering  Thelma  with  that  ill- 
judged  eagerness  and  zealous  persistency  which  distinguish 
inborn  vulgarity,  and  which,  far  from  pleasing  her,  annoyed 
and  embarrassed  her  because  she  could  not  respond  sincerely 
to  such  attentions. 

There  were  many  others  too,  not  dollar-crusted  Americans, 
whose  excessive  adulation  and  ceaseless  compliment  vexed 
the  sincere,  frank  spirit  of  the  girl — a  spirit  fresh  and  pure  as 
the  wind  blowing  over  her  own  Norse  mountains.  One  of 
these  was  Sir  Francis  Lennox,  that  fashionable  young  man  of 
leisure — and  she  had  for  him  an  instinctive  though  quite  un- 
reasonable aversion.  He  was  courtesy  itself — he  spared  no 
pains  to  please  her.  Yet  she  felt  as  if  his  basilisk  brown  eyes 
were  always  upon  her — he  seemed  to  be  ever  at  hand,  ready 
to  watch  over  her  in  trifles,  such  as  the  passing  of  a  cup  of  tea, 
the  offering  of  her  wrap — the  finding  of  a  chair — the  holding 
of  a  fan — he  was  always  on  the  alert,  like  a  remarkably  well- 
trained  upper  servant.  She  could  not,  without  rudeness,  re- 
ject such  unobtrusive,  humble  services,  and  yet  they  rendered 
her  uncomfortable,  though  she  did  not  quite  know  why.  She 
ventured  to  mention  her  feeling  concerning  him  to  her  friend, 
Lady  Winsleigh,  who  heard  her  timid  remarks  with  a  look  on 
her  face  that  was  not  quite  pleasant. 

"Poor  Sir  Francis!"  her  ladyship  said  with  a  slight,  mocking 
laugh.    "He's  never  happy  unless  he  plays  puppy-dog!    Don't 


THELMA.  305 

mind  him,  Thelma!  He  won't  bite,  I  assure  you — he  means 
no  harm.  It's  only  his  little  way  of  making  himself  agree- 
able!" 

George  Lorimer,  during  this  particular  "London  season," 
fled  the  field  of  action,  and  went  to  Paris  to  stay  with  Pierre 
Duprez.  He  felt  that  it  was  dangerous  to  confront  the  fair 
enemy  too  often,  for  he  knew  in  his  own  honest  heart  that  his 
passion  for  Thelma  increased  each  time  he  saw  her — so,  he 
avoided  her.  She  missed  him  very  much  from  her  circle  of 
intimates,  and  often  went  to  see  his  mother,  Mrs.  Lorimer, 
one  of  the  sweetest  old  ladies  in  the  world — who  had  at  once 
guessed  her  son's  secret,  but,  like  a  prudent  dame,  kept  it  to 
herself.  There  were  few  young  women  as  pretty  and  charm- 
ing as  old  Mrs.  Lorimer,  with  her  snow-white  parted  hair  and 
mild  blue  eyes,  and  voice  as  cheery  as  the  note  of  a  thrush  in 
spring-time.  After  Lady  Winsleigh,  Thelma  liked  her  best  of 
all  her  new  friends,  and  was  fond  of  visiting  her  quiet  little 
house  in  Kensington — for  it  was  very  quiet  and  seemed  like  a 
sheltered  haven  of  rest  from  the  great  rush  of  frivolity  and 
folly  in  which  the  fashionable  world  delight. 

And  Thelma  was  often  now  in  need  of  rest.  As  the  season 
drew  toward  its  close,  she  found  herself  strangely  tired  and 
dispirited.  The  life  she  was  compelled  to  lead  was  all  un- 
suited  to  her  nature — it  was  artificial  and  constrained — and 
she  was  often  unhappy.  Why?  Why,  indeed!  She  did  her 
best — but  she  made  enemies  everj'^where.  Again,  why?  Be- 
cause she  had  a  most  pernicious — most  unpleasant  habit  of 
telling  the  truth.  Like  Socrates,  she  seemed  to  say:  "If  any 
man  should  appear  to  me  not  to  possess  virtue,  but  to  pretend 
that  he  does,  I  shall  reproach  him."  This  she  expressed 
silently  in  face,  voice,  and  manner — and,  like  Socrates,  she 
might  have  added  that  she  went  about  "perceiving,  indeed, 
and  grieving  and  alarmed  that  she  was  making  herself  odious." 
For  she  discovered,  by  degrees,  that  many  people  looked 
strangely  upon  her — that  others  seemed  afraid  of  her — and  she 
continually  heard  that  she  was  considered  "eccentric."  So 
she  became  more  reserved — even  cold — she  was  content  to  let 
others  argue  about  trifles  and  air  their  whims  and  follies  with- 
out offering  an  opinion  on  any  side. 

And  by  and  by  the  first  shadow  began  to  sweep  over  the 
fairness  of  her  married  life.    It  happened  at  a  time  when  she 
and  her  husband  were  not  quite  so  much  together — society 
20 


306  THELMA. 

and  its  various  claims  had  naturally  separated  them  a  little, 
but  now  a  question  of  political  ambition  separated  them  still 
more.  Some  well-intentioned  friends  had  persuaded  Sir  Philip 
to  stand  for  Parliament — and  this  idea  no  sooner  entered  his 
head  than  he  decided  with  impulsive  ardor  that  he  had  been 
too  long  without  a  "career" — and  a  "career"  he  must  have  in 
order  to  win  distinction  for  his  wife's  sake.  Therefore,  sum- 
moning his  secretary,  Neville,  to  his  aid,  he  plunged  headlong 
into  the  seething,  turgid  waters  of  English  politics,  and  shut 
himself  up  in  his  library  day  after  day,  studying  blue-books, 
writing  and  answering  letters,  and  drawing  up  addresses — and 
with  the  general  proneness  of  the  masculine  mind  to  attend  to 
one  thing  only  at  a  time,  he  grew  so  absorbed  in  his  work  that 
his  love  for  Thelma,  though  all  unchanged  and  deep  as  ever, 
fell  slightly  into  the  background  of  his  thoughts.  Not  that 
he  neglected  her,  he  simply  concerned  himself  more  with 
other  things.  So  it  happened  that  a  certain  indefinable  sense 
of  loss  weighed  upon  her — a  vague,  uncomprehended  solitude 
began  to  encompass  her — a  solitude  even  more  keenly  felt 
when  she  was  surrounded  by  friends  than  when  she  was  quite 
alone — and  as  the  sweet  English  June  drew  to  his  end,  she 
grew  languid  and  listless,  and  her  blue  eyes  often  filled  with 
sudden  tears.  Her  little  watch-dog,  Britta,  began  to  notice 
this  and  to  wonder  concerning  the  reason  of  her  mistress's 
altered  looks. 

"It  is  this  dreadful  London,"  thought  Britta.  "So  hot  and 
stifling — there's  no  fresh  air  for  her.  And  all  this  going  about 
to  balls  and  parties  and  shows — no  wonder  she  is  tired  out!" 

But  it  was  something  more  than  mere  fatigue  that  made 
Thelma's  eyes  look  sometimes  so  anxious,  so  gravely  medita- 
tive and  earnest.  One  day  she  seemed  so  much  abstracted 
and  lost  in  painful  musings  that  Britta's  loving  heart  ached, 
and  she  watched  her  for  some  moments  without  venturing  to 
say  a  word.    At  last  she  spoke  out  bravely: 

"Froken!"  she  paused — Thelma  seemed  not  to  hear  her — 
"Froken,  has  anything  vexed  or  grieved  you  to-day?" 

Thelma  started  nervously.  "Vexed  me — grieved  me?"  she 
repeated.    "No,  Britta — why  do  you  ask?" 

"You  look  very  tired,  dear  Froken,"  continued  Britta, 
gently.  "You  are  not  as  bright  as  you  were  when  we  first 
came  to  London." 

Thelma's  lips  quivered.     "I — I  am  not  well,  Britta,"  she 


THBLMA.  307 

murmured,  and  suddenly  her  self-control  gave  way,  and  she 
broke  into  tears.  In  an  instant  Britta  was  kneeling  by  her, 
coaxing  and  caressing  her  and  calling  her  by  every  endearing 
name  she  could  think  of,  while  she  wisely  forbore  from  asking 
any  more  questions.  Presently  her  sobs  grew  calmer — she 
rested  her  fair  head  against  Britta's  shoulder  and  smiled 
faintly.  At  that  moment  a  light  tap  was  heard  outside,  and  a 
voice  called: 

"Thelma!  Are  you  there?" 

Britta  opened  the  door,  and  Sir  Philip  entered  hurriedly 
and  smiling — but  stopped  short  to  survey  his  wife  in  dismay. 

"Why,  my  darling!"  he  exclaimed,  distressfully.  "Have 
you  been  crying?" 

Here  the  discreet  Britta  retired. 

Thelma  sprung  to  her  husband  and  nestled  in  his  arms. 

"Philip,  do  not  mind  it!"  she  murmured.  "I  felt  a  little 
sad — it  is  nothing!  But  tell  me — you  do  love  me!  You  will 
never  tire  of  me?    You  have  always  loved  me,  I  am  sure?" 

He  raised  her  face  gently  with  one  hand,  and  looked  at  her 
in  surprise, 

"Thelma — what  strange  questions  from  you!  Love  you? 
Is  not  every  beat  of  my  heart  for  you?  Ave  you  not  my  life, 
^y  joy — my  everything  in  this  world?"  And  he  pressed  her 
passionately  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"You  have  never  loved  any  one  else  so  much?"  she  whis- 
pered, half  abashed. 

"Never!"  he  answered,  readily.  "What  makes  you  ask  such 
a  thing?" 

She  was  silent.  He  looked  down  at  her  flushing  cheeks  and 
tear-wet  lashes  attentively. 

"You  are  fanciful  to-day,  my  pet,"  he  said,  at  last.  "You've 
been  tiring  yourself  too  much.  You  must  rest.  You'd  better 
not  go  to  the  Brilliant  Theater  to-night — it's  only  a  burlesque, 
and  is  sure  to  be  vulgar  and  noisy.  We'll  stop  at  home  and 
spend  a  quiet  evening  together — shall  we?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  half  wistfully,  and  smiled.  "I  should 
like  that  very,  very  much,  Philip!"  she  murmured;  "but  you 
know  we  did  promise  Clara  to  go  with  her  to-night.  And  as 
we  are  so  soon  to  leave  London  and  return  to  Warwickshire, 
I  should  not  like  to  disappoint  her." 

"You  are  very  fond  of  Clara  ?"  he  asked,  suddenly. 

"Very!"    She  paused  and  sighed  slightly.    "She  is  so  kind 


308  THELMA. 

and  clever — much  more  clever  than  I  can  ever  he — and  she 
knows  many  things  about  the  world  which  I  do  not.  And  she 
admires  you  so  much,  Philip!" 

"Does  she  indeed?"  Philip  laughed  and  colored  a  little. 
"Very  good  of  her,  I'm  sure!  And  so  you'd  really  like  to  go 
to  the  Brilliant  to-night?" 

"I  think  so,"  she  said,  hesitatingly.  "Clara  says  it  will  he 
very  amusing.  And  you  must  remember  how  much  I  enjoyed 
'Faust'  and  'Hamlet.' " 

Errington  smiled.  "You'll  find  the  Brilliant  performance 
very  different  to  either,"  he  said,  amusedly.  "You  don't  know 
what  a  burlesque  is  like!" 

"Then  I  must  be  instructed,"  replied  Thelma,  smiling  also. 
"I  need  to  learn  many  things.    I  am  very  ignorant!" 

"Ignorant!"  and  he  swept  aside  with  a  caressing  touch  the 
clustering  hair  from  her  broad,  noble  brow.  "My  darling,  you 
possess  the  greatest  wisdom — the  wisdom  of  innocence.  I 
would  not  change  it  for  all  the  learning  of  the  sagest  philoso- 
phers!" 

"You  really  mean  that?"  she  asked,  half  timidly. 

"I  really  mean  that,"  he  answered  fondly.  "Little  skeptic! 
As  if  I  would  ever  say  anything  to  you  that  I  did  not  mean!  I 
shall  be  glad  when  we're  out  of  London  and  back  at  the  manor 
— then  I  shall  have  you  all  to  myself  again — for  a  time,  at 
least." 

She  raised  her  eyes  full  of  sudden  joy — all  traces  of  her 
former  depression  had  disappeared. 

"And  I  shall  have  you!"  she  said  gladly.  "And  we  shall 
not  disappoint  Lady  Winsleigh  to-night,  PhiHp.  I  am  not 
tired,  and  I  shall  be  pleased  to  go  to  the  theater." 

"All  right!"  responded  Philip,  cheerfully.  "So  let  it  be! 
Only  I  don't  believe  you'll  like  the  piece— though  it  certainly 
won't  make  you  cry.  Yet  I  doubt  if  it  will  make  you  laugh, 
either.    However,  it  will  be  a  new  experience  for  you." 

And  a  new  experience  it  decidedly  was — an  experience,  too, 
which  brought  some  strange  and  perplexing  results  to  Thelma 
of  which  she  never  dreamed. 

She  went  to  the  Brilliant,  accompanied  by  Lady  Winsleigh 
and  her  husband — Neville,  the  secretary,  making  the  fourth 
in  their  box;  and  during  the  first  and  second  scenes  of  the 
performance  the  stage-effects  were  so  pretty  and  the  dancing 
so  graceful  that  she  nearly  forgot  the  bewildered  astonishment 


THELMA.  309 

she  had  at  first  felt  at  the  extreme  scantiness  of  apparel  worn 
by  the  ladies  of  the  ballet.  They  represented  birds,  bees, 
butterflies,  and  other  winged  denizens  of  the  forest-world — 
and  the  tout  ensemble  was  so  fairy-like  and  brilliant  with  swift 
movement,  light,  and  color  that  the  eye  was  too  dazzled  and 
confused  to  note  objectionable  details.  But  in  the  third  scene, 
when  a  plump,  athletic  young  woman  leaped  on  the  stage  in 
the  guise  of  a  humming-bird,  with  a  feather  tunic  so  short  that 
it  was  a  mere  waist-belt  of  extra  width — a  flesh-colored  bodice 
about  three  inches  high,  and  a  pair  of  blue  wings  attached  to 
her  fat  shoulders,  Thelma  started  and  half  rose  from  her  seat 
in  dismay,  while  a  hot  tide  of  color  crimsoned  her  cheeks. 
She  looked  nervously  at  her  husband. 

"I  do  not  think  this  is  pleasant  to  see,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
tone.  "Would  it  not  be  best  to  go  away?  I — I  think  I  would 
rather  be  at  home." 

Lady  Winsleigh  heard  and  smiled — a  little  mocking  smile. 

"Don't  be  silly,  child!"  she  said.  "If  you  leave  the  theater 
just  now  you'll  have  every  one  staring  at  you.  That  woman's 
an  immense  favorite — she  is  the  success  of  the  piece.  She's 
got  more  diamonds  than  either  you  or  I." 

Thelma  regarded  her  friend  with  a  sort  of  grave  wonder — 
but  said  nothing  in  reply.  If  Lady  Winsleigh  liked  the  per- 
formance and  wished  to  remain,  why — then  politeness  de- 
manded that  Thelma  should  not  interfere  with  her  pleasure  by 
taking  an  abrupt  leave.  So  she  resumed  her  seat,  but  with- 
drew herself  far  behind  the  curtain  of  the  box,  in  a  corner 
where  the  stage  was  almost  invisible  to  her  eyes.  Her  hus- 
band bent  over  her  and  whispered : 

"I'll  take  you  home  if  you  wish  it,  dear.  Only  say  the 
word." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Clara  enjoys  it!"  she  answered,  somewhat  plaintively.  "We 
must  stay." 

Philip  was  about  to  address  Lady  Winsleigh  on  the  subject, 
when  suddenly  Neville  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"Can  I  speak  to  you  alone  for  a  moment,  Sir  Philip?"  he 
said  in  a  strange,  coarse  whisper.  "Outside  the  box — away 
from  the  ladies — a  matter  of  importance!" 

He  looked  as  if  he  were  about  to  faint.  He  gasped  rather 
than  spoke  these  words;  his  face  was  white  as  death,  and  his 
eyes  had  a  confused  and  bewildered  stare. 


310  THELMA. 

"Certainly!"  answered  Philip,  promptly,  though  not  with- 
out an  accent  of  surprise — and,  excusing  their  absence  briefly 
to  his  wife  and  Lady  Winsleigh,  they  left  the  box  together. 
Meanwhile  the  well-fed  "Humming-Bird"  was  capering  ex- 
travagantly before  the  foot-lights,  pointing  her  toe  in  the 
delighted  face  of  the  stalls  and  singing  in  a  loud,  coarse 
voice  the  following  refined  ditty: 

"Oh,  my  ducky,  oh,  my  darling,  oh,  my  duck,  duck,  duck, 
If  you  love  me  you  must  have  a  little  pluck,  pluck,  pluck! 
Come  and  put  your  arms  around  me,  kiss  me  once,  twice,  thrice, 
For  kissing  may  be  naughty,  but,  by  Jingo!    it  is  nice! 

Once,   twice,  thrice, 

Nice,  nice,   nice! 

Bliss,  bliss,  bliss! 

Kiss,  kiss,  kiss! 
Kissing  may  be  naughty,  but  it's  nice!" 

There  were  several  verses  in  this  graceful  poem,  and  each 
one  was  hailed  with  enthusiastic  applause.  The  Humming- 
Bird  was  triumphant  and  when  her  song  was  concluded  she 
executed  a  startling  pas-seul  full  of  quaint  and  astonishing 
surprises,  reaching  her  superbest  climax  when  she  backed  of! 
the  stage  on  one  portly  leg — kicking  the  other  in  regular  time 
to  the  orchestra.  Lady  Winsleigh  laughed,  and  leaning  toward 
Thelma,  who  still  sat  in  her  retired  corner,  said,  with  a  show  of 
kindness: 

"You  dear  little  goose!  You  must  get  accustomed  to  this 
kind  of  thing — it  takes  with  the  men  immensely.  Why,  even 
your  wonderful  Philip  has  gone  down  behind  the  scenes  with 
Neville — you  may  be  sure  of  that!" 

The  startled,  pitiful  astonishment  in  the  girl's  face  might 
have  touched  a  less  callous  heart  than  Lady  Winsleigh's — but 
her  ladyship  was  prepared  for  it  and  only  smiled. 

"Gone  behind  the  scenes!  To  see  that  dreadful  woman!" 
exclaimed  Thelma  in  a  low,  pained  tone.  "Oh,  no.  Clara! 
He  would  not  do  such  a  thing.    Impossible!" 

"Well,  my  dear,  then  where  is  he?  He  has  been  gone  quite 
ten  minutes.  Look  at  the  stalls — all  the  men  are  out  of 
them!  I  tell  you,  Violet  Vere  draws  everybody  of  the  male 
sex  after  her!  At  the  end  of  all  her  'scenes'  she  has  a  regular 
reception — for  men  only — of  course!  Ladies  are  not  ad- 
mitted!" And  Clara  Winsleigh  laughed.  "Don't  look  so 
shocked,  for  heaven's  sake,  Thelma — you  don't  want  your 


THELMA.  311 

husband  to  be  a  regular  nincompoop!  He  must  have  liis 
amusements  as  well  as  other  people.  I  believe  you  want  him 
to  be  like  a  baby,  tied  to  your  apron-string!  You'll  find  that 
an  awful  mistake — he'll  get  tired  to  death  of  you,  sweet  little 
Griselda  though  you  are!" 

Thelma's  face  grew  very  pale,  and  her  hand  closed  more 
tightly  on  the  fan  she  held. 

"You  have  said  that  so  very,  very  often  lately,  Clara!"  she 
murmured.  "You  seem  so  sure  that  he  will  get  tired — that 
all  men  get  tired.  I  do  not  think  you  know  Philip — he  is  not 
like  any  other  person  I  have  ever  met.  And  why  should  he 
go  behind  the  scenes  to  such  a  person  as  Violet  Vere — " 

At  that  moment  the  box-door  opened  with  a  sharp  click,  and 
Errington  entered  alone.    He  looked  disturbed  and  anxious. 

"Neville  is  not  well,"  he  said,  abruptly,  addressing  his  wife. 
"I've  sent  him  home.  He  wouldn't  have  been  able  to  sit  this 
thing  out."  And  he  glanced  half  angrily  toward  the  stage — 
the  curtain  had  just  gone  up  again  and  displayed  the  wondrous 
Violet  Vere  still  in  her  "humming-bird"  character,  swinging 
on  the  branch  of  a  tree  and  (after  the  example  of  all  humming- 
birds) smoking  a  cigar  with  brazen-faced  tranquillity. 

"I  am  sorry  he  is  ill,"  said  Thelma,  gently.  "That  is  why 
you  were  so  long  away?" 

"Was  I  long?"  returned  Philip,  somewhat  absently.  "I 
didn't  know  it.    I  went  to  ask  a  question  behind  the  scenes." 

Lady  Winsleigh  coughed  and  glanced  at  Thelma,  whose 
eyes  dropped  instantly. 

"I  suppose  you  saw  Violet  Vere?"  asked  Clara. 

"Yes,  I  saw  her,"  he  replied,  briefly.  He  seemed  irritable 
and  vexed — moreover,,  decidedly  impatient.  Presently  he 
said:  "Lady  Winsleigh,  would  you  mind  very  much  if  we 
left  this  place  and  went  home?  I'm  rather  anxious  about 
Neville — he's  had  a  shock.  Thelma  doesn't  care  a  bit  about 
this  piece,  I  know,  and  if  you  are  not  very  much  absorbed — " 

Lady  Winsleigh  rose  instantly,  with  her  usual  ready  grace. 

"My  dear  Sir  Philip!"  she  said,  sweetly.  "As  if  I  would 
not  do  anything  to  oblige  you!  Let  us  go  by  all  means! 
These  burlesques  are  extremely  fatiguing!" 

He  seemed  relieved  by  her  acquiescence — and  smiled  that 
rare  sweet  smile  of  his,  which  had  once  played  such  havoc 
with  her  ladyship's  sensitive  feelings.  They  left  the  theater, 
and  were  soon  on  their  way  home,  though  Thelma  was  rather 


312  THELMA. 

silent  during  the  drive.  They  dropped  Lady  Winsleigh  at  her 
own  door,  and  after  they  had  bidden  her  a  cordial  good-night, 
and  were  going  on  again  toward  home,  Philip,  turning  toward 
his  wife,  and  catching  sight  of  her  face  by  the  light  of  a  street- 
lamp,  was  struck  by  her  extreme  paleness,  and  weary  look. 

"You  are  very  tired,  my  darling,  I  fear?"  he  inquired,  ten- 
derly encircling  her  with  one  arm.  "Lean  your  head  on  my 
shoulder — so!" 

She  obeyed,  and  her  hand  trembled  a  little  as  he  took  and 
held  it  in  his  own  warm,  strong  clasp. 

"We  shall  soon  be  home!"  he  added,  cheerily.  "And  I 
think  we  must  have  no  more  theater-going  this  season.  The 
heat  and  noise  and  glare  are  too  much  for  you." 

"Philip,"  said  Thelma,  suddenly.  "Did  you  really  go  be- 
hind the  scenes  to-night?" 

"Yes,  I  did,"  he  answered,  readily.  "I  was  obliged  to  go  on 
a  matter  of  business — a  very  disagreeable  and  unpleasant  mat- 
ter too." 

"And  what  was  it?"  she  asked,  timidly,  yet  hopefully. 

"My  pet,  I  can't  tell  you!  I  wish  I  could!  It's  a  secret  I'm 
bound  not  to  betray — a  secret  which  involves  the  name  of  an- 
other person  who'd  be  wretched  if  I  were  to  mention  it  to  you. 
There — don't  let  us  talk  about  it  any  more!" 

"Very  well,  Philip,"  said  Thelma,  resignedly — but  though 
she  smiled,  a  sudden  presentiment  of  evil  depressed  her.  The 
figure  of  the  vulgar,  half-clothed,  painted  creature  known  as 
Violet  Vere  rose  up  mockingly  before  her  eyes — and  the  half- 
scornful,  half-jesting  words  of  Lady  Winsleigh  rang  persist- 
ently in  her  ears. 

On  reaching  home  Philip  went  straight  to  Neville's  little 
study  and  remained  in  earnest  converse  with  him  for  a  long 
time,  while  Thelma  went  to  bed,  and  lay  restless  among  her 
pillows,  puzzling  her  brain  with  strange  forebodings  and  new 
and  perplexing  ideas,-  till  fatigue  overpowered  her,  and  she 
fell  asleep  with  a  few  tear-drops  wet  on  her  lashes.  And  that 
night  Philip  wondered  why  his  sweet  wife  talked  so  plain- 
tively in  her  sleep — though  he  smiled  as  he  Hstened  to  the 
drift  of  those  dove-like  murmurings. 

"No  one  knows  how  my  boy  loves  me,"  sighed  the  dreaming 
voice.  "No  one  in  all  the  world!  How  should  he  tire?  Love 
can  never  tire!" 


THELMA.  313 


Meanwhile,  Lady  Winsleigh,  in  the  seclusion  of  her  own 
boudoir,  penned  a  brief  note  to  Sir  Francis  Lennox  as  follows: 


"Dear  Old  LENNIE--I  saw  you  in  the  stalls  at  the  theater  this 
evening,  though  you  pretended  not  to  see  me.  What  a  fickle 
creature  you  are!  not  that  I  mind  in  the  very  least.  The  vir- 
tuous Bruce-Errington  left  his  saintly  wife  and  me  to  talk  little 
platitudes  together,  while  he,  decorously  accompanied  by  his 
secretary,  went  down  to  pay  court  to  Violet  Vere.  How  stout 
she  is  getting!  Why  don't  you  men  advise  her  to  diet  herself? 
I  know  you  also  went  behind  the  scenes — of  course,  you  are  an 
ami  intime — promising  boy  you  are,  to  be  sure!  Come  and 
lunch  with  me  to-morrow  if  you're  not  too  lazy. 

"Yours  ever,  Clara," 


She  gave  this  missive  to  her  maid,  Louise  Eenaud,  to  post. 
That  faithful  attendant  took  it  first  to  her  own  apartment 
where  she  ungummed  the  envelope  neatly  by  the  aid  of  hot 
water,  and  read  every  word  of  it.  This  was  not  an  exceptional 
action  of  hers — all  the  letters  received  and  sent  by  her  mis- 
tress were  subjected  to  the  same  process — even  these  that 
were  sealed  with  wax  she  had  a  means  of  opening  in  such  a 
manner  that  it  w^as  impossible  to  detect  that  they  had  been, 
tampered  with. 

She  was  a  very  clever  French  maid  was  Louise — one  of  the 
cleverest  of  her  class.  Fond  of  mischief,  ever  suspicious, 
always  on  the  alert  for  evil,  utterly  unscrupulous  and  mali- 
cious, she  was  an  altogether  admirable  attendant  for  a  lady  of 
rank  and  fashion,  her  skill  as  a  coiffeur  and  needlewoman 
always  obtaining  for  her  the  wages  she  so  justly  deserved. 
When  will  wealthy  women  reared  in  idleness  and  luxury  learn 
the  folly  of  keeping  a  trained  spy  attached  to  their  persons? — 
a  spy  whose  pretended  calling  is  merely  to  arrange  dresses  and 
fripperies  (half  of  which  she  invariably  steals),  but  whose  real 
delight  is  to  take  note  of  all  her  mistress'  incomings  and  out- 
goings, tempers  and  tears — to  watch  her  looks,  her  smiles  and 
frowns — and  to  start  scandalous  gossip  concerning  her  in  the 
servants'  hall,  from  whence  it  gradually  spreads  to  the  society 
newspapers — for  do  you  think  these  estimable  and  popular 
journals  are  never  indebted  for  their  "reliable"  information  to 
the  "honest"  statements  of  a  discharged  footman  or  valet? 


314  THELMA. 

Briggs,  for  instance,  had  tried  his  hand  at  a  paragraph  or  two 
concerning  the  "Upper  Ten,"  and  with  the  aid  of  a  dictionary, 
had  succeeded  in  expressing  himself  quite  smartly,  though  in 
ordinary  conversation  his  h's  were  often  lacking  or  superfluous, 
and  his  grammar  doubtful.  Whether  he  persuaded  any  editor 
to  accept  his  literary  efforts  is  quite  another  matter — a  ques- 
tion to  which  the  answer  must  remain  forever  enveloped  in 
mystery — but  if  he  did  appear  in  print  (it  is  only  an  if!)  he 
must  have  been  immensely  gratified  to  consider  that  his  state- 
ments were  received  with  gusto  by  at  least  half  aristocratic 
London,  and  implicitly  believed  as  having  emanated  from  the 
"best  authorities."  And  Louise  Kenaud  having  posted  her 
mistress'  letter  at  last,  went  down  to  visit  Briggs  in  his  private 
pantry,  and  to  ask  him  a  question. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  rapidly,  with  her  tight,  prim  smile. 
"You  read  the  papers — you  will  know.  What  lady  is  that 
of  the  theaters— Violet  Vere?" 

Briggs  laid  down  the  paper  he  was  perusing  and  surveyed 
her  with  a  superior  air. 

"What,  Vi?"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  lazy  wink.  "Ti,  of  the 
Hopperer-Buff?  You've  'erd  of  'er,  surely,  mamzelle?  No? 
There's  not  a  man  (as  is  worth  calling  a  man)  about  town,  as 
don't  know  'er!  Dukes,  lords,  an'  royal  'ighnesses — she's  the 
style  for  'em!  Mag-ni-ficent  creetur!  all  legs  and  arms!  I 
won't  deny  but  wot  I  'ave  an  admiration  for  'er  myself — I 
bought  a  'arf-crown  portrait  of  'er  quite  recently."  And 
Briggs  rose  slowly  and  searched  in  a  mysterious  drawer  which 
he  invariably  kept  locked. 

"  'Ere  she  is,  as  large  as  life,  mamzelle,"  he  continued,  ex- 
hibiting a  "promenade"  photograph  of  the  actress  in  question. 
"There's  a  neck  for  you!  There's  form!  Vi,  my  dear,  I  saloot 
you!"  and  he  pressed  a  sounding  kiss  on  the  picture.  "You're 
one  in  a  million!  Smokes  and  drinks  like  a  trooper,  mam- 
zelle!" he  added,  admiringly,  as  Louise  Eenaud  studied  the 
portrait  attentively.  "But  with  all  'er  advantages,  you  would 
not  call  'er  a  lady.  No — that  term  would  be  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. She  is  wot  we  men  would  call  an  enchantin'  female!" 
And  Briggs  kissed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  and  waved  them  in 
the  air  as  he  had  seen  certain  foreign  gentlemen  do  when 
enthusiastic. 

"I  comprehend,"  said  the  French  maid,  nodding  emphat- 


THELMA.  315 

ically.  "Then,  if  she  is  so,  what  makes  that  proud  Seigneur 
Bruce-Errington  visit  her?"  Here  she  shook  her  fingers  at 
Briggs.  "And  leave  his  beautiful  lady  wife  to  go  and  see 
her?"  Another  shake.  "And  that  miserable  Sieur  Lennox  to 
go  also?  Tell  me  that!"  She  folded  her  arms,  like  Napoleon 
at  St.  Helena,  and  smiled  again  that  smile  which  was  nothing 
but  a  sneer.    Briggs  rubbed  his  nose  contemplatively. 

"Little  Francis  can  go  ennywheres,"  he  said  at  last.  "He's 
laid  out  a  good  deal  of  tin  on  Vi  and  others  of  'er  purfession. 
You  can  not  make  ennythink  of  that  young  feller  but  a  cad. 
I  would  not  accept  'im  for  my  pussonal  attendant.  No!  But 
Sir  Philip  Bruce-Errington — "  He  paused,  then  continued, 
"Air  you  sure  of  your  facts,  mamzelle?" 

Mamzelle  was  so  sure  that  the  bow  on  her  cap  threatened  to 
come  off  with  the  determined  wagging  of  her  head. 

**Well,"  resumed  Briggs,  "Sir  Philip  may,  like  bothers,  con- 
sider it  'the  thing'  you  know,  to  'ang  on  as  it  were  to  Vi.  But 
I  'ad  thought  'im  superior  to  it.  Ah!  poor  'uman  natur',  as 
'Uxley  says!"  and  Briggs  sighed.  "Lady  Errington  is  a  sweet 
creetur,  mamzelle — a  very  sweet  creetur!  Has  a  rule  I  find 
the  merest  nod  of  my  'ed  a  sufficient  saloot  to  a  woman  of  the 
aristocracy — but  for  'er,  mamzelle,  I  never  fail  to  show  'er  up 
with  a  court  bow!"  And  involuntarily  Briggs  bowed  then  and 
there  in  his  most  elegant  manner.  Mamzelle  tightened  her 
thin  lips  a  little  and  waved  her  hand  expressively. 

"She  is  an  angel  of  beauty!"  she  said,  "and  Miladi  Wins- 
leigh  is  jealous — ah,  Dieu!  jealous  to  death  of  her!  She  is 
innocent  too — like  a  baby — and  she  worships  her  husband. 
That  is  an  error!  To  worship  a  man  is  a  great  mistake — 
she  will  find  it  so.  Men  are  not  to  be  too  much  loved — no, 
no!" 

Briggs  smiled  in  superb  self -consciousness.  *^ell,  well!  I 
will  not  deny,  mamzelle,  that  it  spoils  us,"  he  said,  com- 
placently. "It  certainly  spoils  us!  *When  lovely  woman 
stoops  to  folly' — the  hold,  hold  story!" 

"You  will  r-r-r-emember,"  said  mamzelle,  suddenly  step- 
ping up  very  close  to  him  and  speaking  with  a  strong  accent, 
"what  I  have  said  to-night!  Monsieur  Briggs,  you  will  r-re- 
member!  There  will  be  mees-cheef!  Yes — there  will  be 
mees-cheef  to  Sieur  Bruce-Errington,  and  when  there  is — I 
— I,  Louise  Eenaud — I  know  who  ees  at  the  bottom  of  eet!" 


316  THELMA. 

So  saying,  with  a  whirl  of  her  black  silk  dress  and  a  flash  of 
her  white  muslin  apron,  she  disappeared.  Briggs,  left  alone, 
sauntered  to  a  looking-glass  hanging  on  the  wall  and  studied 
with  some  solicitude  a  pimple  that  had  recently  appeared  on 
his  clean-shaven  face. 

"Mischief!"  he  soliloquized.  "I  dessay!  Whenever  a  lot 
of  women  gets  together,  there's  sure  to  be  mischief.  Dear 
creeturs!  They  love  it  like  the  best  Cliquot!  Sprightly 
young  pusson  is  mamzelle.  Knows  who's  at  the  bottom  of 
'eet,'  does  she?  Well — she's  not  the  only  one  as  knows  the 
same  thing!  As  long  as  doors  'as  cracks  and  key'oles,  it  ain't 
in  the  least  difficult  to  find  out  wot  goes  on  inside  boo-dwars 
and  drorin'-rooms.  And  'ighly  interestin'  things  one  'ears 
now  and  then — 'ighly  interestin'!" 

And  Briggs  leered  suavely  at  his  own  reflection,  and  then 
resumed  the  perusal  of  his  paper.  He  was  absorlaed  in  the 
piquant,  highly  flavored  details  of  a  particularly  disgraceful 
divorce  case,  and  he  was  by  no  means  likely  to  disturb  him- 
self from  his  refined  enjoyment  for  any  less  important  reason 
than  the  summons  of  Lord  Winsleigh's  bell,  which  rang  so 
seldom  that,  when  it  did,  he  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  an- 
swer immediately,  for,  as  he  said: 

"His  lordship  knows  wot  is  due  to  me,  and  I  knows  wot  is 
due  to  'im — therefore  it  'appens  we  are  able  to  ekally  respect 
each  other!" 


CHAPTEE  V. 


If  thou   wert  honorable. 
Thou  wouldst  have  told  this  tale  for  virtue,  not 
For  such  an  end  thou  seek'st;    as  base,  as  strange. 
Thou  wrong'st  a  gentleman  who  is  as  far 
From  thy  report,  as  thou  from  honor. 

Cymbeline. 

Summer  in  Shakespeare  Land!  Summer  in  the  heart  of 
England — summer  in  wooded  Wanvackshire — a  summer  bril- 
liant, warm,  radiant  with  flowers,  melodious  with  the  songs  of 


THELMA.  317 

the  heaven-aspiring  larks,  and  the  sweet,  low  trill  of  the 
forest-hidden  nightingales.  Wonderful  and  divine  it  is  to 
heai'  the  wild  chorus  of  nightingales  that  sing  beside  Como  in 
the  hot  languorous  nights  of  an  Italian  July — wonderful  to 
hear  them  maddening  themselves  with  love  and  music,  and 
almost  splitting  their  slender  throats  with  the  bursting  bubbles 
of  burning  song — but  there  is  something,  perhaps,  more 
dreamily  enchanting  still — to  hear  them  warbling  less  pas- 
sionately but  more  plaintively,  beneath  the  drooping  leafage  of 
those  grand  old  trees,  some  of  which  may  have  stretched  their 
branches  in  shadowy  benediction  over  the  sacred  head  of  the 
grandest  poet  in  the  world.  Why  travel  to  Athens — why  wan- 
der among  the  Ionian  Isles  for  love  of  the  classic  ground? 
Surely,  though  the  clear-brained  old  Greeks  were  the  founders 
of  all  noble  literature,  they  have  reached  their  culminating 
point  in  the  English  Shakespeare — and  the  Warwickshire 
lanes,  decked  simply  with  hawthorn  and  sweet-brier  roses, 
through  which  Mary  Arden  walked  leading  her  boy-angel  by 
the  hand,  are  sacred  as  any  portion  of  that  earth  once  trodden 
by  the  feet  of  Homer  and  Plato. 

So,  at  least,  Thelma  thought,  when,  released  from  the 
bondage  of  London  social  life,  she  found  herself  once  more  at 
Errington  Manor,  then  looking  its  loveliest,  surrounded  with 
a  green  girdle  of  oak  and  beech,  and  set  off  by  the  beauty  of 
velvety  lawns  and  terraces,  and  rose-gardens  in  full  bloom. 
The  depression  from  which  she  had  suffered  fell  away  from 
her  completely — she  grew  light-hearted  as  a  child,  and  flitted 
from  room  to  room,  singing  to  herself  for  pure  gladness. 
Philip  was  with  her  all  day  now,  save  for  a  couple  of  hours  in 
the  forenoon  which  he  devoted  to  letter-writing  in  connection 
with  his  parliamentary  aspirations — and  Philip  was  tender, 
adoring,  and  passionate  as  lovers  may  be,  but  as  husbands 
seldom  are.  They  took  long  walks  together  through  the 
woods — they  often  rambled  across  the  fragrant  fields  to  Anne 
Hathaway's  cottage,  which  was  not  very  far  away,  and  sitting 
in  some  sequestered  nook,  Philip  would  pull  from  his  pocket 
a  volume  of  the  immortal  plays,  and  read  passages  aloud  in 
his  fine  mellow  voice,  while  Thelma,  making  posies  of  the 
meadow  flowers,  listened  entranced.  Sometimes,  when  he  was 
in  a  more  business-like  humor,  he  would  bring  out  "Cicero's 
Orations,"  and  after  pondering  over  them  for  awhile  would 


318  THELMA. 

talk  very  grandly  about  the  way  in  which  he  meant  to  speak 
in  Parliament. 

"They  want  dash  and  fire  there,"  he  said,  "and  these  quali- 
ties must  be  united  with  good  common  sense.  In  addressing 
the  House,  you  see,  Thelma,  one  must  arouse  and  interest  the 
men — not  bore  them.  You  can't  expect  fellows  to  pass  a  bill 
if  you've  made  them  long  for  their  beds  all  the  time  you've 
been  talking  about  it." 

Thelma  smiled  and  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  "Cicero's 
Orations." 

"And  do  you  wish  to  speak  to  them  like  Cicero,  my  boy?" 
she  said  gently.  "But  I  do  not  think  you  will  find  that  pos- 
sible. Because  when  Cicero  spoke  it  was  in  a  different  age, 
and  to  very  different  people — people  who  were  glad  to  learn 
how  to  be  wise  and  brave.  But  if  you  were  Cicero  himself, 
do  you  think  you  would  be  able  to  impress  the  English  Par- 
liament?" 

"Why  not,  dear?"  asked  Errington  with  some  fervor.  "I 
believe  that  men,  taken  as  men,  puret  simple,  are  the  same  in 
all  ages,  and  are  open  to  the  same  impressions.  Why  should 
not  modern  Englishmen  be  capable  of  receiving  the  same 
lofty  ideas  as  the  antique  Eomans,  and  acting  upon  them?" 

"Ah,  do  not  ask  me  why,"  said  Thelma,  with  a  plaintive  lit- 
tle shake  of  her  head — "for  I  can  not  tell  you!  But  remember 
how  many  members  of  Parliament  we  did  meet  in  London — 
and  where  were  their  lofty  ideas?  Philip,  had  they  any  ideas 
at  all,  do  you  think?  There  was  that  very  fat  gentleman  who 
is  a  brewer — well,  to  hear  him  talk,  would  you  not  think  all 
England  was  for  the  making  of  beer?  And  he  does  not  care 
for  the  country  unless  it  continues  to  consume  his  beer!  It 
was  to  that  very  man  I  said  something  about  'Hamlet,'  and  he 
told  me  he  had  no  interest  for  such  nonsense  as  Shakespeare 
and  play-going — his  time  was  taken  up  at  the  '  'Ouse.'  You 
see,  he  is  a  member  of  Parliament — yet  it  is  evident  he  neither 
knows  the  language  nor  the  literature  of  his  country!  And 
there  must  be  many  like  him,  otherwise  so  ignorant  a  person 
would  not  hold  such  a  position — and  for  such  men,  what 
would  be  the  use  of  a  Cicero?" 

Philip  leaned  back  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree  under 
which  they  were  sitting,  and  laughed. 

''You  may  be  right,  Thelma — I  dare  say  you  are.  There's 
certainly  too  much  beer  represented  in  the  House — I  admit 


THELMA.  319 

that.  But,  after  all,  trade  is  the  great  moving-spring  of  na- 
tional prosperity — and  it  would  hardly  be  fair  to  refuse  seats 
to  the  very  men  who  help  to  keep  the  country  going." 

"I  do  not  see  that,"  said  Thelma,  gravely — "if  those  men  are 
ignorant,  why  should  they  have  a  share  in  so  important  a 
thing  as  Government?  They  may  know  all  about  beer,  and 
wool,  and  iron — but  perhaps  they  can  only  judge  what  is  good 
for  themselves,  not  what  is  best  for  the  whole  country,  with 
all  its  rich  and  poor.  I  do  think  that  only  the  wisest  scholars 
and  most  intelligent  persons  should  be  allowed  to  help  in  the 
ruling  of  a  great  nation." 

"But  the  people  choose  their  own  rulers,"  remarked  Erring- 
ton,  reflectively. 

"Ah,  the  poor  people!"  sighed  Thelma.  "They  know  so 
very  little — and  they  are  taught  so  badly!  I  think  they  never 
do  quite  understand  what  they  do  want — they  are  the  same  in 
all  histories — like  little  children,  they  get  bewildered  and 
frightened  in  any  trouble,  and  the  wisest  heads  are  needed  to 
think  for  them.  It  is,  indeed,  most  cruel  to  make  them  puzzle 
out  all  difficulty  for  themselves!" 

"What  a  little  sage  you  are,  my  pet!"  laughed  Philip,  taking 
her  hand  on  which  the  marriage-ring  and  its  accompanying 
diamond  circlet  glistened  brilliantly  in  the  warm  sunhght. 
"Do  you  mean  to  go  in  for  politics?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  indeed!  That  is  not  woman's 
work  at  all.  The  only  way  in  which  I  think  about  such  things, 
is  that  I  feel  the  people  can  not  all  be  wise — and  that  it  seems 
a  pity  the  wisest  and  grandest  in  the  land  should  not  be 
chosen  to  lead  them  rightly." 

"And  so,  under  the  circumstances,  you  think  it's  no  use  my 
trying  to  pose  as  a  Cicero?"  asked  her  husband,  amusedly. 
She  laughed — with  a  very  tender  cadence  in  her  laughter, 

"It  would  not  be  worth  your  while,  my  boy,"  she  said. 
"You  know  I  have  often  told  you  that  I  do  not  see  any  great 
distinction  in  being  a  member  of  Parliament  at  all.  What 
will  you  do?  You  will  talk  to  the  fat  brewer  perhaps,  and 
he  will  contradict  you — then  other  people  will  get  up  and 
talk  and  contradict  each  other — and  so  it  will  go  on  for  days 
and  days — meanwhile  the  country  remains  exactly  as  it  was, 
neither  better  nor  worse — and  all  the  talking  does  no  good! 
It  is  better  to  be  out  of  it — here  together,  as  we  are  to-day." 

And  she  raised  her  dreamy  blue  eyes  to  the  sheltering 


320  THELMA. 

canopy  of  green  leaves  that  overhung  them — leaves  thick 
clustered  and  dewy,  through  which  the  dazzling  sky  peeped 
in  radiant  patches.  Philip  looked  at  her — the  rapt  expression 
of  her  upward  gaze,  the  calm,  untroubled  sweetness  of  her  fair 
face  were  such  as  might  well  have  suited  one  of  Eaphael's 
divinest  angels.  His  heart  beat  quickly;  he  drew  closer  to 
her,  and  put  his  arm  round  her. 

"Your  eyes  are  looking  at  the  sky,  Thelma,"  he  whispered. 
"Do  you  know  what  that  is?  Heaven  looking  into  heaven! 
And  do  you  know  which  of  the  two  heavens  I  prefer?"  She 
smiled,  and,  turning,  met  his  ardent  gaze  with  one  of  equal 
passion  and  tenderness. 

"Ah,  you  do  know!"  he  went  on,  softly  kissing  the  side  of 
her  slim,  white  throat.  "I  thought  you  couldn't  possibly  make 
a  mistake!"  He  rested  his  head  against  her  shoulder,  and 
after  a  minute  or  two  of  lazy  comfort,  he  resumed:  "You  are 
not  ambitious,  my  Thelma!  You  don't  seem  to  care  whether 
your  husband  distinguishes  himself  in  the  '  'Ouse,'  as  our 
friend  the  brewer  calls  it,  or  not.  In  fact,  I  don't  believe  you 
care  for  anything  save — love!    Am  I  not  right,  my  wife?" 

A  wave  of  rosy  color  flushed  her  transparent  skin,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  an  earnest,  almost  pathetic  languor. 

"Surely  of  all  things  in  the  world,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone — 
"love  is  best?" 

To  this  he  made  prompt  answer,  though  not  in  words — his 
lips  conversed  with  hers,  in  that  strange,  sweet  language 
which,  though  unwritten,  is  everywhere  comprehensible — and 
then  they  left  their  shady  resting-place  and  sauntered  home- 
ward hand  in  hand  through  the  warm  fields  fragrant  with  wild 
thyme  and  clover. 

Many  happy  days  passed  thus  with  these  lovers — for  lovers 
they  still  were.  Marriage  had  for  once  fulfilled  its  real  and 
sacred  meaning — it  had  set  Love  free  from  restraint,  and  had 
opened  all  the  gate-ways  of  the  only  earthly  paradise  human 
hearts  shall  ever  know — the  paradise  of  perfect  union  and 
absolute  sympathy  with  the  one  thing  beloved  on  this  side 
eternity. 

The  golden  hours  fled  by  all  too  rapidly — and  toward  the 
close  of  August  there  came  an  interruption  to  their  felicity. 
Courtesy  had  compelled  Bruce-Errington  and  his  wife  to  in- 
vite a  few  friends  down  to  visit  them  at  the  manor  before  the 
glory  of  the  summer-time    was    past — and  first  among  the 


THELMA.  321 

guests  came  Lord  and  Lady  Winsleigh  and  their  bright  boy, 
Ernest.  Her  ladyship's  maid,  Louise  llenaud,  of  course,  ac- 
companied her  ladysiiip — and  Briggs  was  also  to  the  fore  in 
the  capacity  of  Lord  Winsleigh's  personal  attendant.  After 
these,  George  Lorimer  arrived — he  had  avoided  the  Erring- 
tons  all  the  season — but  he  could  not  very  well  refuse  the 
pressing  invitation  now  given  him  without  seeming  churlish. 
Then  came  Beau  Lovelace,  for  a  few  days  only,  as  with  the 
commencement  of  September  he  would  be  off  as  usual  to  his 
villa  on  the  Lago  di  Como.  Sir  Francis  Lennox,  too,  made  his 
appearance  frequently  in  a  casual  sort  of  way — he  "ran  down," 
to  use  his  own  expression,  now  and  then,  and  made  himself 
very  agreeable,  especially  to  men,  by  whom  he  was  well  liked 
for  his  invariable  good  humor  and  extraordinary  proficiency  in 
all  sports  and  games  of  skill.  Another  welcome  visitor  was 
Pierre  Duprez,  lively  and  sparkling  as  ever.  He  came  from 
Paris  to  pass  a  fortnight  with  his  ^^cher  Phil-eep,"  and  made 
merriment  for  the  whole  party.  His  old  admiration  for  Britta 
had  by  no  means  decreased — he  was  fond  of  waylaying  that 
demure  little  maiden  on  her  various  household  errands,  and 
giving  her  small  posies  of  Jasmine  and  other  sweet-scented 
blossoms  to  wear  just  above  the  left-hand  corner  of  her  apron- 
bib,  close  to  the  place  where  the  heart  is  supposed  to  be.  Olaf 
Guldmar  had  been  invited  to  the  manor  at  this  period.  Er- 
rington  wrote  many  urgent  letters,  and  so  did  Thelma,  en- 
treating him  to  come,  for  nothing  would  have  pleased  Sir 
Philip  more  than  to  have  introduced  the  fine  old  Odin  wor- 
shiper among  his  fashionable  friends,  and  to  have  heard  him 
bluntly  and  forcibly  holding  his  own  among  them,  putting 
their  faint  and  languid  ways  of  life  to  shame  by  his  manly, 
honest  and  vigorous  utterance.  But  Guldmar  had  only  just 
returned  to  the  Alten  Fjord  after  nearly  a  year's  absence,  and 
his  hands  were  too  full  of  work  for  him  to  accept  his  son-in- 
law's  invitation. 

"The  farm  lands  have  a  waste  and  dreary  look,"  he  wrote, 
"though  I  let  them  to  a  man  who  should  verily  have  known 
how  to  till  the  soil  trodden  by  his  fathers — and  as  for  the  farm- 
house, 'twas  like  a  hollow  shell  that  has  lain  long  on  the  shore 
and  become  brown  and  brittle — for  thou  knowest  no  human 
creature  has  entered  there  since  we  departed.  However,  Val- 
demar  Svensen  and  I,  for  sake  of  company,  have  resolved  to 
dwell  together  in  it,  and  truly  we  have  nearly  settled  down  to 

21 


322  THELMA. 

the  peaceful  contemplation  of  our  past  days — so  Philip,  and 
thou,  my  child  Thelma,  trouble  not  concerning  me.  I  am 
hale  and  hearty,  the  gods  be  thanked — and  may  live  on  in 
hope  to  see  you  both  next  spring  or  summer-tide.  Your  hap- 
piness keeps  this  old  man  young — so  grudge  me  not  the  news 
of  your  delights  wherein  I  am  myself  delighted." 

One  familiar  figure  was  missing  from  the  manor  house- 
hold— that  of  Edward  Neville.  Since  the  night  at  the  Bril- 
liant, when  he  had  left  the  theater  so  suddenly,  and  gone 
home  on  the  plea  of  illness,  he  had  never  been  quite  the  same 
man.  He  looked  years  older — he  was  strangely  nervous  and 
timid — and  he  shrunk  away  from  Thelma  as  though  she 
were  some  guilty  or  tainted  creature.  Surprised  at  this,  she 
spoke  to  her  husband  about  it — but  he,  hurriedly,  and  with 
some  embarrassment,  advised  her  to  "let  him  alone" — his 
"nerves  were  shaken" — his  "health  was  feeble" — and  that  it 
would  be  kind  on  her  part  to  refrain  from  noticing  him  or 
asking  him  questions.  So  she  refrained — but  Neville's  be- 
havior puzzled  her  all  the  same.  When  they  left  town,  he 
implored,  almost  piteously,  to  be  allowed  to  remain  behind — 
he  could  attend  to  Sir  Philip's  business  so  much  better  in 
London,  he  declared,  and  he  had  his  way.  Errington,  usually 
fond  of  Neville's  society,  made  no  attempt  whatever  to  per- 
suade him  against  his  will — so  he  stayed  in  the  half-shut-up 
house  in  Prince's  Gate  through  all  the  summer  heat,  poring 
over  parliamentary  documents  and  pamphlets — and  Philip 
came  up  from  the  country  once  a  fortnight  to  visit  him,  and 
transact  any  business  that  might  require  his  personal  atten- 
tion. 

On  one  of  the  last  and  hottest  days  in  August,  a  grand 
garden-party  was  given  at  the  manor.  All  the  country  people 
were  invited,  and  they  came  eagerly,  though,  before  Thelma's 
social  successes  in  London,  they  had  been  reluctant  to  meet 
her.  Now,  they  put  on  their  best  clothes,  and  precipitated 
themselves  into  the  manor  grounds  like  a  flock  of  sheep  seek- 
ing land  on  which  to  graze — all  wearing  their  sweetest  pro- 
pitiatory smirk — all  gushing  forth  their  admiration  of  "that 
darling  Lady  Errington" — all  behaving  themselves  in  the  ex- 
ceptionally funny  manner  that  county  people  affect — people 
who  are  considered  somebodies  in  the  small  villages  their  big 
houses  dominate — ^but  who,  when  brought  to  reside  in  Lon- 
don, become  less  than  the  minnows  in  a  vast  ocean.     These 


THELMA.  323 

good  folks  were  not  only  anxious  to  see  Lady  Errington — they 
wanted  to  say  they  had  seen  her — and  that  she  had  spoken  to 
them,  so  that  they  might,  in  talking  to  their  neighbors,  men- 
tion it  in  quite  an  easy,  casual  way,  such  as — "Oh,  I  was  at 
Errington  Manor  the  other  day,  and  Lady  Errington  said  to 
me."  Or — "Sir  Philip  is  such  a  charming  man!  I  was  talk- 
ing to  his  lovely  wife,  and  he  asked  me,"  etc.,  etc.  Or — 
"You've  no  idea  what  large  strawberries  they  grow  at  the 
manor!  Lady  Errington  showed  me  some  that  were  just  ripen- 
ing— magnificent!"  And  so  on.  For  in  truth  this  is  "a.  mad 
world,  my  masters" — and  there  is  no  accounting  for  the  in- 
expressibly small  folKes  and  mean  toadyisms  of  the  people  in 
it. 

Moreover,  all  the  London  guests  who  were  visiting  Thelma 
came  in  for  a  share  of  the  county  magnates'  servile  admira- 
tion. They  found  the  Winsleighs  "so  distingue" — Master 
Ernest  instantly  became  "that  dear  boy!" — Beau  Lovelace  was 
"so  dreadfully  clever,  you  know!" — and  Pierre  Duprez  "quite 
too  delightful!" 

The  grounds  looked  very  brilliant — pink-and-white  mar- 
quees were  dotted  here  and  there  on  the  smooth  velvet  lawns 
— bright  flags  waved  from  different  quarters  of  the  gardens, 
signals  of  tennis,  archery,  and  dancing — and  the  voluptuous 
waltz-music  of  a  fine  Hungarian  band  rose  up  and  swayed  in 
the  air  with  the  downward  floating  songs  of  the  birds  and  the 
dash  of  fountains  in  full  play.  Girls  in  pretty  light  summer 
costumes  made  picturesque  groups  under  the  stately  oaks  and 
beeches — gay  laughter  echoed  from  the  leafy  shrubberies,  and 
stray  couples  were  seen  sauntering  meditatively  through  the 
rose-gardens,  treading  on  the  fallen  scented  petals,  and  ap- 
parently too  much  absorbed  in  each  other  to  notice  anything 
that  was  going  on  around  them.  Most  of  these  were  lovers, 
of  course — intending  lovers,  if  not  declared  ones — in  fact, 
Eros  was  very  busy  that  day  among  the  roses,  and  shot  forth 
a  great  many  arrows,  aptly  aimed,  out  of  his  exhaustless 
quiver. 

Two  persons  there  were,  however — man  and  woman — 
who,  walking  in  that  same  rose-avenue,  did  not  seem,  from 
their  manner,  to  have  much  to  do  with  the  fair  Greek  god — 
they  were  Lady  Winsleigh  and  Sir  Francis  Lennox.  Her 
ladyship  looked  exceedingly  beautiful  in  her  clinging  dress 
of  Madras  lace,  with  a  bunch  of  scarlet  poppies  at  her  breast, 


324  THELMA. 


and  a  wreath  of  the  same  vivid  iloM^ers  in  her  picturesque 
Leghorn  hat.  She  held  a  scarlet-hned  parasol  over  her  head, 
and  from  under  the  protecting  shadow  of  this  silken  pavilion, 
her  dark,  lustrous  eyes  flashed  disdainfully  as  she  regarded 
her  companion.  He  was  biting  an  end  of  his  brown  mustache, 
and  looked  annoyed,  yet  lazily  amused  too. 

"Upon  my  life,  Clara,"  he  observed,  "you  are  really  awfully 
down  on  a  fellow,  you  know!  One  would  think  you  never 
cared  twopence  about  me!" 

"Too  high  a  figure!"  retorted  Lady  Winsleigh,  with  a  hard 
little  laugh.     "I  never  cared  a  brass  farthing!" 

He  stopped  short  in  his  walk  and  stared  at  her. 

"By  Jove!  you  are  cool!"  he  ejaculated.  "Then  what  did 
you  mean  all  this  time?" 

"What  did  you  mean?"  she  asked,  defiantly. 

He  was  silent.  After  a  slight,  uncomfortable  pause  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled. 

"Don't  let  us  have  a  scene!"  he  observed  in  a  bantering 
tone.     "Anything  but  that!" 

"Scene!"  she  exclaimed,  indignantly.  "Pray  when  have 
you  had  to  complain  of  me  on  that  score?" 

"Well,  don't  let  me  have  to  complain  now,"  he  said,  coolly. 

She  surveyed  him  in  silent  scorn  for  a  moment,  and  her 
full,  crimson  lips  curled  contemptuously. 

"What  a  brute  you  are!"  she  muttered  suddenly  between 
her  set  pearly  teeth. 

"Thanks,  awfully!"  he  answered,  taking  out  a  cigarette,  and 
Hghting  it  leisurely.  "You  are  really  charmingly  candid, 
Clara!    Almost  as  frank  as  Lady  Errington,  only  less  polite!" 

"I  shall  not  learn  politeness  from  you,  at  any  rate,"  she 
sai(3^ — then  altering  her  tone  to  one  of  studied  indifference, 
she  continued  coldly:  "What  do  you  want  of  me?  We've 
done  with  each  other,  as  you  know.  I  believe  you  wish  to  be- 
come gentleman-lackey  to  Bruce-Errington's  wife,  and  that 
you  find  it  difficult  to  obtain  the  situation.  Shall  I  give  you 
a  character?" 

He  flushed  darkly,  and  his  eyes  glittered  with  an  evil  luster. 

"Gently,  Clara!  Draw  it  mild!"  he  said,  languidly. 
"Don't  irritate  me,  or  I  may  turn  crusty!  You  know,  if  I 
chose,  I  could  open  Bruce-Errington's  eyes  rather  more  widely 
than  you'd  like  with  respect  to  the  devoted  affection  you  en- 
tertain for  his  beautiful  wife."     She  winced  a  Httle  at  this 


THELMA.  325 

observation — he  saw  it  and  laughed — then  resumed:  "At 
present  I'm  really  in  the  best  of  humors.  The  reason  I  wanted 
to  speak  to  you  alone  for  a  minute  or  two  was  that  I'd  some- 
thing to  say  which  might  possibly  please  you.  But  perhaps 
you'd  rather  not  hear  it?" 

She  was  silent.  So  was  he.  He  watched  her  closely  for  a 
little — noting  with  complacency  the  indignant  heaving  of  her 
breast  and  the  flush  on  her  cheeks — signs  of  the  strong  repres- 
sion she  was  putting  upon  her  rising  temper. 

"Come,  Clara,  you  may  as  well  be  amiable,"  he  said.  "I'm 
sure  you'll  be  glad  to  know  that  the  \drtuous  Philip  is  not 
immaculate  after  all.  Won't  it  comfort  you  to  think  that  he's 
nothing  but  a  mortal  man  like  the  rest  of  us? — and  that  with 
a  little  patience  your  charms  will  most  probably  prevail  with 
him  as  easily  as  they  once  did  with  me?  Isn't  that  worth 
hearing?" 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  she  replied,  curtly. 
"Then  you  are  very  dense,  my  dear  girl,"  he  remarked, 
smihngly.  "Pardon  me  for  saying  so!  But  I'll  put  it  plainly 
and  in  as  few  words  as  possible.  The  moral  Bruce-Errington, 
like  a  great  many  other  'moral'  men  I  know,  has  gone  in  for 
Violet  Vere,  and  I  dare  say  you  understand  what  that  means. 
In  the  simplest  language,  it  means  that  he's  tired  of  his 
domestic  bliss  and  wants  a  change." 

Lady  Winsleigh  stopped  in  her  slow  pacing  along  the  gravel 
walk  and  raised  her  eyes  steadily  to  her  companion's  face. 
"Are  you  sure  of  this?"  she  asked. 

"Positive!"  replied  Sir  Francis,  flicking  the  light  ash  off 
his  cigarette  delicately  with  his  little  finger.  "When  you 
wrote  me  that  note  about  the  Vere,  I  confess  I  had  my  sus- 
picions. Since  then  they've  been  confirmed.  I  know  for  a 
fact  that  Errington  has  had  several  private  interviews  with  Vi, 
and  has  also  written  her  a  good  many  letters.  Some  of  the 
fellows  in  the  greenroom  tease  her  about  her  new  conquest, 
and  she  grins  and  admits  it.  Oh,  the  whole  thing's  plain 
enough!  Only  last  week,  when  he  went  up  to  town  to  see  his 
man  ISTeville  on  business  he  called  on  Vi  at  her  own  apart- 
ments in  Arundell  Street,  Strand.  She  told  me  so  herself — 
we're  rather  intimate,  you  know — though  of  course  she  re- 
fused to  mention  the  object  of  his  visit.  Honor  among 
thieves!"  and  he  smiled  half  mockingly. 

Lady  Winsleigh  seemed  absorbed,  and  walked  on  like  one 


326  THELMA. 

in  a  dream.  Just  then  a  bend  in  the  avenue  brought  them  in 
full  view  of  the  broad  terrace  in  front  of  the  manor,  where 
Thelma's  graceful  figure,  in  a  close-fitting  robe  of  white  silk 
crepe,  was  outlined  clearly  against  the  dazzling  blue  of  the 
sky.  Several  people  were  grouped  near  her — she  seemed  to 
be  in  animated  conversation  with  some  of  them,  and  her  face 
was  radiant  with  smiles.  Lady  Winsleigh  looked  at  her — then 
said  suddenly  in  a  low  voice: 

"It  will  break  her  heart!" 

Sir  Francis  assumed  an  air  of  polite  surprise.  "Pardon! 
Whose  heart?" 

She  pointed  slightly  to  the  white  figure  on  the  terrace. 

"Hers!     Surely  you  must  know  that!" 

He  smiled.  "Well,  isn't  that  precisely  what  you  desire, 
Clara?  Though,  for  my  part,  I  don't  believe  in  the  brittleness 
of  hearts — they  seem  to  me  to  be  made  of  exceptionally  tough 
material.  However,  if  the  fair  Thelma's  heart  cracks  ever  so 
widely,  I  think  I  can  undertake  to  mend  it!" 

Clara  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "You!"  she  exclaimed, 
contemptuously. 

He  stroked  his  mustache  with  feline  care  and  nicety. 

"Yes — I!  If  not,  I've  studied  women  all  my  life  for 
nothing!" 

She  broke  into  a  low  peal  of  mocking  laughter — turned, 
and  was  about  to  leave  him,  when  he  detained  her  by  a  slight 
touch  on  her  arm. 

"Stop  a  bit!"  he  said  in  an  impressive  sotto  voce.  "A  bar- 
gain's a  bargain  all  the  world  over.  If  I  undertake  to  keep 
you  cognizant  of  Bruce-Errington's  little  goings-on  in  London 
— information  which,  I  dare  say,  you  can  turn  to  good  account 
— you  must  do  something  for  me.  I  ask  very  little.  Speak 
of  me  to  Lady  Errington — make  her  think  well  of  me — flatter 
me  as  much  as  you  used  to  do  when  we  fancied  ourselves  ter- 
rifically in  love  with  each  other — (a  good  joke,  wasn't  it?) — 
and,  above  all,  make  her  trust  me!     Do  you  understand?" 

"As  Eed  Riding-Hood  trusted  the  Wolf  and  was  eaten  up 
for  her  innocence,"  observed  Lady  Winsleigh.  "Very  well! 
I'll  do  my  best.  As  I  said  before,  you  want  a  character.  I'm 
sure  I  hope  you'll  obtain  the  situation  you  so  much  desire!  I 
can  state  that  you  made  yourself  fairly  useful  in  your  last 
place,  and  that  you  left  because  your  wages  were  not  high 
enough!" 


THELMA.  327 

And  with  another  sarcastic  laugh,  she  moved  forward  to- 
ward the  terrace  where  Thelma  stood.  Sir  Francis  followed 
at  some  little  distance  with  no  very  pleasant  expression  on  his 
features.  A  stealthy  step  approaching  him  from  behind  made 
him  start  nervously.  It  was  Louise  Eenaud,  who,  carrying  a 
silver  tray  on  which  soda-water  bottles  and  glasses  made  an 
agreeable  clinking,  tripped  demurely  past  him  without  raising 
her  eyes.  She  came  directly  out  of  the  rose-garden,  and,  as 
she  overtook  her  mistress  on  the  lawn,  that  lady  seemed  sur- 
prised, and  asked: 

"Where  have  you  been,  Louise?" 

"Miladi  was  willing  that  I  should  assist  in  the  attendance 
to-day,"  replied  Louise,  discreetly.  "I  have  waited  upon 
Milord  Winsleigh  and  other  gentlemen  in  the  summer-house 
at  the  end  of  the  rose-garden." 

And  with  one  furtive  glance  of  her  black  bead-like  eyes  at 
Lady  Winsleigh's  face,  she  made  a  respectful  sort  of  half 
courtesy  and  went  her  way. 

Later  on  in  the  afternoon,  when  it  was  nearing  sunset,  and 
all  other  amusements  had  given  way  to  the  delight  of  dancing 
on  the  springy  green  turf  to  the  swinging  music  of  the  band — 
Briggs,  released  for  a  time  from  the  duties  of  assisting  the 
waiters  at  the  splendid  refreshment-table  (duties  which  were 
pleasantly  lightened  by  the  drinking  of  a  bottle  of  champagne 
which  he  was  careful  to  reserve  for  his  own  consumption), 
sauntered  leisurely  through  the  winding  alleys  and  fragrant 
shrubberies  which  led  to  the  most  unromantic  portion  of  the 
manor  grounds — namely,  the  vegetable-garden.  Here  none  of 
the  butterflies  of  fashion  found  their  way — the  suggestions 
offered  by  growing  cabbages,  turnips,  beans,  and  plump, 
yellow-skinned  marrows  were  too  prosaic  for  society  bantams 
who  require  refined  surroundings  in  which  to  crow  their  as- 
sertive platitudes.  Yet  it  was  a  peaceful  nook — and  there  were 
household  odors  of  mint  and  thyme  and  sweet  marjoram 
which  were  pleasant  to  the  soul  of  Briggs,  and  reminded  him 
of  roast  goose  on  Christmas-day,  with  all  its  attendant  succu- 
lent delicacies.  He  paced  the  path  slowly,  the  light  of  the 
sinking  sun  blazing  gloriously  on  his  plush  breeches,  silver 
cordons  and  tassels,  for  he  was  in  full-dress  livery  in  honor  of 
the  fete,  and  looked  exceedingly  imposing.  Now  and  then  he 
glanced  down  at  his  calves  with  mild  approval;  his  silk  stock- 


328  THELMA. 

ings  fitted  them  well,  and  they  had  a  very  neat  and  shapely  ap- 
pearance. 

"I  'ave  developed,"  he  murmured  to  himself.  "There  ain't 
a  doubt  about  it!  One  week  of  country  air,  and  I'm  a  differ- 
ent man;  the  effecks  of  overwork  'ave  disappeared.  Flopsie 
won't  know  these  legs  of  mine  when  I  get  back — they've  im- 
proved surprisingly,"  He  stopped  to  survey  a  bed  of  carrots. 
"Plenty  of  Cressy  there,"  he  mused.  "Cressy's  a  noble  soup, 
and  Flopsie  makes  it  well — a  man  might  do  wuss  than  marry 
Flopsie.  She's  a  widder,  and  a  leetle  old — just  a  leetle  old  for 
me — but — "  Here  he  sniffed  delicately  at  a  sprig  of  thyme 
he  had  gathered,  and  smiled  consciously.  Presently  he  per- 
ceived a  small,  plump,  pretty  figure  approaching  him.  No 
other  than  Britta,  looking  particularly  charming  in  a  very 
smart  cap,  adorned  with  pink-ribbon  bows,  and  a  very  elabo- 
rately frilled  muslin  apron.  Briggs  at  once  assumed  his  most 
elegant  and  conquering  air,  straightened  himself  to  his  full 
height  and  kissed  his  hand  to  her  with  much  condescension. 
She  laughed  as  she  came  up  to  him,  and  the  dimples  in  her 
round  cheeks  appeared  in  full  force. 

"Well,  Mr.  Briggs,"  she  said,  "are  you  enjoying  yourself?" 

Briggs  smiled  down  upon  her  benevolently.  "I  am!"  he 
responded,  graciously.  "I  find  the  hair  refreshing.  And  you, 
Miss  Britta?" 

"Oh,  I'm  very  comfortable,  thank  you!"  responded  Britta, 
demurely,  edging  a  little  away  from  his  arm,  which  showed 
an  unmistakable  tendency  to  encircle  her  waist — then  glancing 
at  a  basket  she  held  full  of  grapes,  just  cut  from  the  hot- 
house, she  continued:  "These  are  for  the  supper-table.  I 
must  be  quick,  and  take  them  to  Mrs.  Parton." 

"Must  you?"  and  Briggs  asked  this  question  with  quite  an 
unnecessary  amount  of  tenderness,  then  resuming  his  dignity, 
he  observed:  "Mrs.  Parton  is  a  very  worthy  woman — an  ex- 
cellent 'ousekeeper.  But  she'll  no  doubt  excuse  you  for 
lingering  a  little,  Miss  Britta, — especially  in  my  company." 

Britta  laughed  again,  showing  her  pretty  little  white  teeth 
to  the  best  advantage.  "Do  you  think  she  will?"  she  said, 
merrily.  "Then  I'll  stop  a  minute,  and  if  she  scolds  me  I'll 
put  the  blame  on  you!" 

Briggs  played  with  his  silver  tassels,  and  leaning  gracefully 
against  a  plum-tree,  surveyed  her  with  a  critical  eye. 

*1  was  not  able,"  he  observed,  "to  see  much  of  you  in  town. 


THELMA.  329 

Our  people  were  always  a'  visitin'  each  other,  and  yet  our 
meetings  were,  as  the  poet  says,  'few  and  far  between.' " 

Britta  nodded  indifferently,  and  perceiving  a  particularly 
ripe  gooseberry  on  one  of  the  bushes  close  to  her,  gathered  it 
quickly  and  popped  it  between  her  rosy  lips.  Seeing  another 
equally  ripe,  she  offered  it  to  Briggs,  who  accepted  it  and  ate 
it  slowly,  though  he  had  a  misgiving  that  by  so  doing  he  was 
seriously  compromising  his  dignity.  He  resumed  his  conver- 
sation. 

"Since  I've  been  down  'ere,  I've  'ad  more  opportunity  to 
observe  you.  I  'ope  you  will  allov/  me  to  say  I  think  very 
'ighly  of  you."  He  waved  his  hand  with  the  elegance  of  a 
Sir  Charles  Grandison.  "Very  'ighly  indeed!  Your  youth  is 
most  becoming  to  you!  If  you  only  'ad  a  little  more  chick, 
there'd  be  nothing  left  to  desire!" 

"A  little  more — what?"  asked  Britta,  opening  her  blue  eyes 
very  wide  in  puzzled  amusement. 

"Chick!"  replied  Briggs,  with  persistent  persuasiveness. 
"Chick,  Miss  Britta,  is  a  French  word  much  used  by  the  aris- 
tocracy. Coming  from  Norway,  and  'avin'  perhaps  a  very 
limited  experience,  you  mayn't  'ave  'erd  it — but  eddicated 
people  'ere  find  it  very  convenient  and  expressive.  Chick 
means  style — the  thing — the  go,  the  fashion.  For  example, 
everythink  your  lady  wears  is  chick!" 

"Eeally!"  said  Britta,  with  a  wondering  and  innocent  air. 
"How  funny!  It  doesn't  sound  like  French  at  all,  Mr.  Briggs 
— it's  more  like  English." 

"Perhaps  the  Paris  accent  isn't  familiar  to  you  yet,"  re- 
marked Briggs,  majestically.  "Your  stay  in  the  gay  metrop- 
olis was  probably  short.  •  Now,  I  'ave  been  there  many  times 
— ah,  Paris,  Paris!"  he  paused  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  then,  with 
a  side  leer,  continued:  "You'd  'ardly  believe  'ow  wicked  I 
am  in  Paris,  Miss  Britta!  I  am,  indeed!  It  is  something  in 
the  hair  of  the  holly vards,  I  suppose!  And  the  caffy  life  ex- 
cites my  nerves." 

"Then  you  shouldn't  go  there,"  said  Britta,  bravely,  though 
her  eyes  twinkled  with  repressed  fun.  "It  can't  be  good  for 
you.  And,  oh!  I'm  so  sorry,  Mr.  Briggs,  to  think  that  you  are 
ever  wicked!"     And  she  laughed. 

"It's  not  for  long,"  explained  Briggs,  with  a  comically  satis- 
fied, yet  penitent  look.  "It  is  only  a  sort  of  breaking  out — a 
fit  of  'igh  spirits.    Hall  men  are  so  at  times!    It's  chick  to  run 


330  THELMA. 

a  little  wild  in  Paris.  But,  Miss  Britta,  if  you  were  with  me  I 
should  never  run  wild!"  Here  his  arm  made  another  attempt 
to  get  round  her  waist — and  again  she  skillfully,  and  with 
some  show  of  anger,  avoided  it. 

"Ah,  you're  very  'ard  upon  me,"  he  then  observed.  "Very, 
very,  'ard!  But  I  won't  complain,  my — my  dear  gal — one  day 
you'll  know  me  better!"  He  stopped  and  looked  at  her  very 
intently.  "Miss  Britta,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "you've  a  great 
affection  for  your  lady,  'aven't  you?" 

Instantly  Britta's  face  flushed,  and  she  was  all  attention. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  she  answered,  quickly.  "Why  do  you  ask, 
Mr.  Briggs?" 

Briggs  rubbed  his  nose  perplexedly.  "It  is  not  easy  to  ex- 
plain," he  said.  "To  run  down  my  own  employers  wouldn't 
be  in  my  line.  But  I've  an  idea  that  Clara — ^by  which  name  I 
allude  to  my  Lord  Winsleigh's  lady — is  up  to  mischief.  She 
'ates  your  lady,  Miss  Britta — 'ates  'er  like  poison!" 

"Hates  her!"  cried  Britta,  in  astonishment.  "Oh,  you  must 
be  mistaken,  Mr.  Briggs!  She  is  as  fond  of  her  as  she  can  be 
— almost  like  a  sister  to  her!" 

"Clara's  a  fine  actress,"  munnured  Briggs,  more  to  himself 
than  his  companion.  "She'd  beat  Violet  Vere  on  'er  own 
ground."  Eaising  his  voice  a  httle,  he  turned  gallantly  to 
Britta  and  reheved  her  of  the  basket  she  held. 

"Hallow  me!"  he  said.  "We'll  walk  to  the  'ouse  together. 
On  the  way  I'll  explain— and  you'll  judge  for  yourself.  The 
words  of  the  immortal  bard,  whose  county  we  are  in,  occur  to 
me  as  aprerpo:  'There  are  more  things  in  'evin  and  erth, 
'Oratio — than  even  the  most  devoted  domestic  can  sometimes 
be  aweer  of.' " 

And  gently  sauntering  by  Britta's  side,  Briggs  began  to 
converse  in  low  and  confidential  tones.  She  listened  with 
strained  and  eager  attention,  and  she  was  soon  receiving  in- 
formation that  startled  her  and  set  her  on  the  alert. 

Talk  of  private  detectives  and  secret  service!  Do  private 
detectives  ever  discover  so  much  as  the  servants  of  a  man's 
own  household?— servants  who  are  aware  of  the  smallest 
trifles — who  know  the  name  and  position  of  every  visitor  that 
comes  and  goes— who  easily  learn  to  recognize  the  handwrit- 
ing on  every  letter  that  arrives — who  laugh  and  talk  in  their 
kitchens  over  things  that  their  credulous  masters  and  mis- 
tresses imagine  are  unknown  to  all  the  world  save  themselves 


THELMA.  331 

— who  will  judge  the  morals  of  a  duke,  and  tear  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  duchess  to  shreds  for  the  least,  the  most  trifling 
error  of  conduct!  If  you  can  stand  well  with  your  servants, 
you  can  stand  well  with  the  whole  world — if  not — carry  your- 
self as  haughtily  as  you  may — your  pride  will  not  last  long, 
depend  upon  it! 

Meanwhile,  as  Briggs  and  Britta  strolled  in  the  side  paths  of 
the  shrubbery,  the  gay  guests  of  the  manor  were  dancing  on 
the  lawn.  Thelma  did  not  dance — she  reclined  in  a  low 
basket-chair,  fanning  herself.  George  Lorimer  lay  stretched 
in  lazy  length  at  her  feet,  and  near  her  stood  her  husband  to- 
gether with  Beau  Lovelace  and  Lord  Winsleigh.  At  a  little 
distance,  under  the  shadow  of  a  noble  beech,  sat  Mrs.  Eush- 
Marvelle  and  Mrs.  Van  Clupp  in  earnest  conversation.  It  was 
to  Mrs.  Marvelle  that  the  Van  Clupps  owed  their  invitation  for 
this  one  day  down  to  Errington  Manor — for  Thelma  herself 
was  not  partial  to  them.  But  she  did  not  like  to  refuse  Mrs. 
Marvelle's  earnest  entreaty  that  they  should  be  asked — and 
that  good-natured,  scheming  lady  having  gained  her  point, 
straightway  said  to  Marcia  Van  Clupp  somewhat  severely: 

"Now,  Marcia,  this  is  your  last  chance.  If  you  don't  hook 
Masherville  at  the  Errington  fete,  you'll  lose  him!  You  mark 
my  words!" 

Marcia  had  dutifully  promised  to  do  her  best,  and  she  was 
now  having  what  she  herself  called  "a  good  hard  time  of  it." 
Lord  Algy  was  in  one  of  his  most  provokingly  vacillating 
moods — moreover,  he  had  a  headache,  and  felt  bilious.  There- 
fore he  would  not  dance — he  would  not  play  tennis — he  did 
not  understand  archery — he  was  disinclined  to  sit  in  romantic 
shrubberies  or  summer-houses,  as  he  had  a  nervous  dread  of 
spiders — so  he  rambled  aimlessly  about  the  grounds  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  perforce  Marcia  was  compelled  to 
ramble  too.  Once  she  tried  what  effect  an  opposite  flirtation 
would  have  on  his  mind,  so  she  coquetted  desperately  with  a 
young  country  squire,  whose  breed  of  pigs  was  considered  the 
finest  in  England — but  Masherville  did  not  seem  to  mind  it  in 
the  least.  Nay,  he  looked  rather  relieved  than  otherwise,  and 
Marcia,  seeing  this,  grew  more  resolute  than  ever. 

"I  guess  I'll  pay  him  out  for  this!"  she  thought  as  she 
watched  him  feebly  drinking  soda-water  for  his  headache. 
"He's  a  man  that  want's  ruling,  and  ruled  he  shall  be!" 

And  Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle  and  Mrs.  Van  Clupp  observed  her 


332  THELMA. 

maneuvers  with  maternal  interest,  while  the  cunning-faced, 
white-headed  Van  Clupp  conversed  condescendingly  with  Mr. 
Eush-Marvelle  as  being  a  nonentity  of  a  man  whom  he  could 
safely  patronize. 

As  the  glory  of  the  sunset  paled,  and  the  delicate,  warm 
hues  of  the  summer  twilight  softened  the  landscape,  the  mer- 
riment of  the  brilliant  assembly  seemed  to  increase.  As  soon  as 
it  was  dark,  the  grounds  were  to  be  illuminated  by  electricity, 
and  dancing  was  to  be  continued  in-doors — the  fine  old  pict- 
ure-gallery being  the  place  chosen  for  the  purpose.  Nothing 
that  could  add  to  the  utmost  entertainment  of  the  guests  had 
been  forgotten,  and  Thelma,  the  fair  mistress  of  these  pleasant 
revels,  noting  with  quiet  eyes  the  evident  enjoyment  of  all 
present,  felt  very  happy  and  tranquil.  She  had  exerted  her- 
self a  good  deal,  and  was  now  a  little  tired.  Her  eyes  had  a 
dreamy,  far-ofi'  look,  and  she  found  her  thoughts  wandering 
now  and  then  away  to  the  Alten  Fjord — she  almost  fancied 
she  could  hear  the  sigh  of  the  pines  and  the  dash  of  the  waves 
mingling  in  unison  as  they  used  to  do  when  she  sat  at  the  old 
farm-house  window  and  spun,  little  dreaming  then  how  her 
life  would  change — how  all  those  familiar  things  would  be 
swept  away  as  though  they  had  never  been.  She  roused  her- 
self from  this  momentary  reverie,  and  glancing  down  at  the 
recumbent  gentleman  at  her  feet,  touched  his  shoulder  lightly 
with  the  edge  of  her  fan. 

"Why  do  you  not  dance,  you  very  lazy  Mr.  Lorimer?"  she 
asked,  with  a  smile. 

He  turned  up  his  fair,  half -boyish  face  to  hers  and  laughed. 

"Dance!  I!  Good  gracious!  Such  an  exertion  would  kill 
me,  Lady  Errington — don't  you  know  that?  I  am  of  a  sultan- 
like disposition — I  shouldn't  mind  having  slaves  to  dance  for 
me  if  they  did  it  well — but  I  should  look  on  from  the  throne 
whereon  I  sat  cross-legged,  and  smoke  my  pipe  in  peace." 

"Always  the  same!"  she  said,  lightly.  "Are  you  never 
serious?" 

His  eyes  darkened  suddenly.  "Sometimes.  Awfully  so! 
And  in  that  condition  I  become  a  burden  to  myself  and  my 
friends." 

"Never  be  serious!"  interposed  Beau  Lovelace,  "it  really 
isn't  worth  while!  Cultivate  the  humor  of  a  Socrates,  and  re- 
duce everything  by  means  of  close  argument  to  its  smallest 
standpoint,  and  the  world,  life,  and  time  are  no  more  than  a 


THELMA.  333 

pinch  of  snuff  for  some  great  Titanic  god  to  please  his  giant 
nose  withal!" 

"Your  fame  isn't  worth  much  then,  Beau,  if  we're  to  go  by 
that  line  of  argument,"  remarked  Errington,  with  a  laugh. 

"Fame!  By  Jove!  You  don't  suppose  I'm  such  an  arrant 
donkey  as  to  set  any  store  by  fame!"  cried  Lovelace,  a  broad 
smile  lightening  up  his  face  and  eyes.  "Why,  because  a  few 
people  read  my  books  and  are  amused  thereby — and  because 
the  press  pats  me  graciously  on  the  back,  and  says  metaphor- 
ically, 'Well  done,  little  'un!'  or  words  to  that  effect,  am  I  to 
go  crowing  about  the  world  as  if  I  were  the  only  literary 
chanticleer?  My  dear  friend,  have  you  read  'Esdras'?  You 
will  find  there  that  a  certain  King  of  Persia  wrote  to  one 
Rathumus,  a  story  writer.  No  doubt  he  was  famous  in  his 
day,  but — to  travestie  'Hamlet,'  'where  be  his  stories  now?' 
Learn,  from  the  deep  oblivion  into  which  poor  Eathumus's 
literary  efforts  have  fallen,  the  utter  mockery  and  uselessncss 
of  so-called  fame!" 

"But  there  must  be  a  certain  pleasure  in  it  while  you're 
alive  to  enjoy  it,"  said  Lord  Winsleigh.  "Surely  you  derive 
some  little  satisfaction  from  your  celebrity,  Mr.  Lovelace?" 

Beau  broke  into  a  laugh,  mellow,  musical,  and  hearty. 

"A  satisfaction  shared  with  murderers,  thieves,  divorced 
women,  dynamiters,  and  other  notorious  people  in  general," 
he  said.  "They're  all  talked  about — so  am  I.  They  all  get 
written  about — so  do  I.  My  biography  is  always  being  care- 
fully compiled  by  newspaper  authorities,  to  the  delight  of  the 
reading  public.  Only  the  other  day  I  learned  for  the  first  time 
that  my  father  was  a  green-grocer,  who  went  in  for  selling 
coals  by  the  half-hundred  and  thereby  made  his  fortune — my 
mother  was  an  unsuccessful  oyster-woman  who  failed  igno- 
miniously  at  Margate — moreover,  I've  a  great  many  brothers 
and  sisters  of  tender  age  whom  I  absolutely  refuse  to  assist. 
I've  got  a  wife  somewhere,  whom  my  literary  success  causes 
me  to  despise — and  I  have  deserted  children.  I'm  charmed 
with  the  accuracy  of  the  newspapers — and  I  wouldn't  contra- 
dict them  for  the  world — I  find  my  biographies  so  original! 
They  are  the  result  of  that  celebrity  which  Winsleigh  thinks 
enjoyable." 

"But  assertions  of  that  kind  are  libels,"  said  Errington. 
"You  could  prosecute." 

"Too  much  trouble!"  declared  Beau.     "Besides,  five  jour- 


334  THELMA. 

nals  have  disclosed  the  name  of  the  town  where  I  was  born, 
and  as  they  all  contradict  each  other,  and  none  of  them  are 
right,  any  contradiction  on  my  part  would  be  superfluous!" 

They  laughed,  and  at  that  moment  Lady  Winsleigh  joined 
them. 

"Are  you  not  catching  cold,  Thelma?"  she  inquired,  sweetly. 
"Sir  Philip,  you  ought  to  make  her  put  on  something  warm; 
I  find  the  air  growing  chilly." 

At  that  moment  the  ever-ready  Sir  Francis  Lennox  ap- 
proached with  a  light  woollen  wrap  he  had  found  in  the  hall. 

"Permit  me!"  he  said,  gently,  at  the  same  time  adroitly 
throwing  it  over  Thelma's  shoulders. 

She  colored  a  little — she  did  not  care  for  his  attention,  but 
she  could  not  very  well  ignore  it  without  seeming  to  be  dis- 
courteous. So  she  murmured,  "Thank  you!"  and,  rising  from 
her  chair,  addressed  Lady  Winsleigh. 

"If  you  feel  cold,  Clara,  you  will  like  some  tea,"  she  said. 
"Shall  we  go  in-doors,  where  it  is  ready?" 

Lady  Winsleigh  assented  with  some  eagerness — and  the  two 
beautiful  women — the  one  dark,  the  other  fair — walked  side 
by  side  across  the  lawn  into  the  house,  their  arms  round  each 
other's  waists  as  they  went. 

"Two  queens — and  yet  not  rivals?"  half  queried  Lovelace, 
as  he  watched  them  disappearing. 

"Their  thrones  are  secure!"  returned  Sir  Philip,  gayly. 

The  others  were  silent.  Lord  Winsleigh's  thoughts,  what- 
ever they  were,  deepened  the  lines  of  gravity  on  his  face;  and 
George  Lorimer,  as  he  got  up  from  his  couch  on  the  grass, 
caught  a  fleeting  expression  in  the  brown  eyes  of  Sir  Francis 
Lennox  that  struck  him  with  a  sense  of  unpleasantness.  But 
he  quickly  dismissed  the  impression  from  his  mind,  and  went 
to  have  a  quiet  smoke  in  the  shrubbery. 


THELMA.  335 


CHAPTER  VI. 

La  rose  du  jardin,  comme  tu  sais,  dure  peu,  et  la  saison  des 
roses  est  bien  vite  6coul6e! — Saadi. 

Thelma  took  her  friend  Lady  Winsleigh  to  her  own  boudoir, 
a  room  which  had  been  the  particular  pride  of  Sir  Philip's 
mother.  The  walls  were  decorated  with  panels  of  blue  silk  in 
which  were  woven  flowers  of  gold  and  silver  thread — and  the 
furniture,  bought  from  an  old  palace  in  Milan,  was  of  elabo- 
rately carved  wood  inlaid  with  ivory  and  silver.  Here  a  tete- 
a-tete  tea  was  served  for  the  two  ladies,  both  of  whom  were 
somewhat  fatigued  by  the  pleasures  of  the  day.  Lady  Wins- 
leigh declared  she  must  have  some  rest,  or  she  would  be  quite 
unequal  to  the  gayeties  of  the  approaching  evening,  and 
Thelma  herself  was  not  sorry  to  escape  for  a  little  from  her 
duties  as  hostess — so  the  two  remained  together  for  some  time 
in  earnest  conversation,  and  Lady  Winsleigh  then  and  there 
confided  to  Thelma  what  she  had  heard  reported  concerning 
Sir  Philip's  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  burlesque  actress, 
Violet  Vere.  And  they  were  both  so  long  absent  that,  after 
awhile,  Errington  began  to  miss  his  wife,  and,  growing  im- 
patient, went  in  search  of  her.  He  entered  the  boudoir,  and, 
to  his  surprise,  found  Lady  Winsleigh  there  quite  alone. 

"Where  is  Thelma?"  he  demanded. 

"She  seems  not  very  well — a  slight  headache  or  something 
of  that  sort — and  has  gone  to  lie  down,"  replied  Lady  Wins- 
leigh, with  a  faint  trace  of  embarrassment  in  her  manner.  "I 
think  the  heat  has  been  too  much  for  her." 

"I'll  go  and  see  after  her" — and  he  turned  promptly  to  leave 
the  room. 

"Sir  Philip!"  called  Lady  Winsleigh.  He  paused  and  looked 
back. 

"Stay  one  moment,"  continued  her  ladyship,  softly.  "I  have 
been  for  a  long  time  so  very  anxious  to  say  something  to  you 
in  private.  Please  let  me  speak  now.  You — you  know" — 
here  she  cast  down  her  lustrous  eyes — "Tsefore  you  went  to 
Norway  I — I  was  very  foolish — " 


336  THELMA. 

"Pray  do  not  recall  it,"  he  said  with  kindly  gravity.  "T 
have  forgotten  it." 

"That  is  so  good  of  you!"  and  a  flush  of  color  warmed  her 
delicate  cheeks.  "For  if  you  have  forgotten,  you  have  also 
forgiven?" 

"Entirely!"  answered  Errington,  and  touched  by  her  plain- 
tive self-reproachful  manner  and  trembling  voice,  he  went  up 
to  her  and  took  her  hands  in  his  own.  "Don't  think  of  the 
past,  Clara!  Perhaps  I  also  was  to  blame  a  little — I'm  quite 
willing  to  think  I  was.  Flirtation's  a  dangerous  amusement 
at  best."  He  paused  as  he  saw  two  bright  tears  on  her  long, 
silky  lashes,  and  in  his  heart  felt  a  sort  of  remorse  that  he  had 
ever  permitted  himself  to  think  badly  of  her.  "We  are  the 
best  of  friends  now,  Clara,"  he  continued,  cheerfully,  "and 
I  hope  we  may  always  remain  so.  You  can't  imagine  how 
glad  I  am  that  you  love  my  Thelma!" 

"Who  would  not  love  her!"  sighed  Lady  Winsleigh,  gently, 
as  Sir  Philip  released  her  hands  from  his  warm  clasp — then 
raising  her  tearful  eyes  to  his  she  added  wistfully:  "You 
must  take  great  care  of  her,  Philip — she  is  so  sensitive — I 
always  fancy  an  unkind  word  would  kill  her." 

"She'll  never  hear  one  from  me!"  he  returned,  with  so  ten- 
der and  earnest  a  look  on  his  face  that  Lady  Winsleigh's  heart 
ached  for  jealousy.  "I  must  really  go  and  see  how  she  is. 
She's  been  exerting  herself  too  much  to-day.  Excuse  me!" 
and  with  a  courteous  smile  and  bow  he  left  the  room  with  a 
hurried  and  eager  step. 

Alone,  Lady  Winsleigh  smiled  bitterly.  "Men  are  all 
alike!"  she  said  half  aloud.  "Who  would  think  he  was  such  a 
hypocrite?  Fancy  his  dividing  his  afl'ection  between  two  such 
contrasts  as  Thelma  and  Violet  Vere!  However,  there's  no 
accounting  for  tastes.  As  for  man's  fidelity,  I  wouldn't  give  a 
straw  for  it — and  for  his  morality — !"  She  finished  the  sen- 
tence with  a  scornful  laugh,  and  left  the  boudoir  to  return  to 
the  rest  of  the  company. 

Errington,  meanwhile,  knocked  softly  at  the  door  of  his 
wife's  bedroom,  and  receiving  no  answer,  turned  the  handle 
noiselessly  and  went  in.  Thelma  lay  on  the  bed,  dressed  as 
she  was,  her  cheek  resting  on  her  hand,  and  her  face  partly 
hidden.  Her  husband  approached  on  tiptoe,  and  lightly  kissed 
her  forehead.  She  did  not  stir — she  appeared  to  sleep  pro- 
foundly. 


TH'ELMA.  337 

"Poor  girl!"  he  thought,  "she's  tired  out,  and  no  wonder, 
with  all  the  bustle  and  racket  of  these  people!  A  good  thing 
if  she  can  rest  a  little  before  the  evening  closes  in." 

And  he  stole  quietly  out  of  the  room,  and  meeting  Britta  on 
the  stairs  told  her  on  no  account  to  let  her  mistress  be  dis- 
turbed till  it  was  time  for  the  illumination  of  the  grounds. 
Britta  promised.  Britta's  eyes  were  red — one  would  almost 
have  fancied  she  had  been  crying.  But  Thelma  was  not  asleep 
— she  had  felt  her  husband's  kiss — her  heart  had  beat  as 
quickly  as  the  wing  of  a  caged  wild  bird  at  his  warm  touch, 
and  now  he  had  gone  she  turned  and  pressed  her  lips  passion- 
ately on  the  pillow  where  his  hand  had  leaned.  Then  she 
rose  languidly  from  her  bed,  and,  walking  slowly  to  the  door, 
locked  it  against  all  comers.  Presently  she  began  to  pace  the 
room  up  and  down — up  and  down.  Her  face  was  very  white 
and  weary,  and  every  now  and  then  a  shuddering  sigh  broke 
from  her  lips. 

"Can  I  believe  it?  Oh,  no! — I  can  not — I  will  not!"  she 
murmured.  "There  must  be  some  mistake — Clara  has  heard 
wrongly."  She  sighed  again.  "Yet — if  it  is  so — he  is  not  to 
blame — it  is  I — I  who  have  failed  to  please  him.  Where — how 
have  I  failed?" 

A  pained,  puzzled  look  filled  her  grave  blue  eyes,  and  she 
stopped  in  her  walk  to  and  fro. 

"It  can  not  be!"  she  said,  half  aloud — "it  is  altogether  un- 
like him.  Though  Clara  says — and  she  has  known  him  so 
long! — Clara  says  he  loved  her  once — long  before  he  saw  me — 
my  poor  Philip! — he  must  have  suffered  by  that  love! — per- 
haps that  is  why  he  thought  life  so  wearisome  when  he  first 
came  to  the  Alten  Fjord — ah!  the  Alten  Fjord!" 

A  choking  sob  rose  in  her  throat,  but  she  repressed  it.  "I 
must  not  weary  him,"  she  continued,  softly — "I  must  have 
done  so  in  some  way,  or  he  would  not  be  tired.  But  as  for 
what  I  have  heard — it  is  not  for  me  to  ask  him  questions.  I 
would  not  have  him  think  that  I  mistrust  him.  No — there  is 
some  fault  in  me — something  he  does  not  like,  or  he  would 
never  go  to — "  She  broke  off  and  stretched  out  her  hands 
with  a  sort  of  wild  appeal.  "Oh,  Philip!  my  darling!"  she 
exclaimed,  in  a  sobbing  whisper.  "I  always  knew  I  was  not 
worthy  of  you — but  I  thought — I  hoped  my  love  would  make 
amends  for  all  my  shortcomings!" 

Tears  rushed  into  her  eyes,  and  she  turned  to  a  little  arched 


338  THELMA. 

recess,  shaded  by  velvet  curtains — her  oratory — where  stood 
an  exquisite  white  marble  statuette  of  the  Virgin  and  Child. 
There  she  knelt  for  some  minutes,  her  face  hidden  in  her 
hands,  and  when  she  rose  she  was  quite  calm,  though  very 
pale.  She  freshened  her  face  with  cold  water,  rearranged  her 
disordered  hair,  and  then  went  down-stairs,  thereby  running 
into  the  arms  of  her  husband  who  was  coming  up  again  to 
look,  as  he  said,  at  his  "Sleeping  Beauty." 

"And  here  she  is!"  he  exclaimed,  joyously.  "Have  you 
rested  enough,  my  pet?" 

"Indeed,  yes!"  she  answered,  gently.  "I  am  ashamed  to  be 
so  lazy.    Have  you  wanted  me,  Philip?" 

"I  always  want  you,"  he  declared.  "I  am  never  happy 
without  you." 

She  smiled  and  sighed.  "You  say  that  to  please  me,"  she 
saidj  half  wistfully. 

"I  say  it  because  it  is  true!"  he  asserted,  proudly,  putting 
his  arm  around  her  waist  and  escorting  her  in  this  manner 
down  the  great  staircase.  "And  you  know  it,  you  sweet  witch! 
You're  Just  in  time  to  see  the  lighting  up  of  the  grounds. 
There'll  be  a  good  view  from  the  picture-gallery — lots  of  the 
people  have  gone  in  there;  you'd  better  come  too,  for  it's 
chilly  outside." 

She  followed  him  obediently,  and  her  reappearance  among 
her  guests  was  hailed  with  enthusiasm — Lady  Winsleigh  being 
particularly  effusive,  almost  too  much  so. 

"Your  headache  has  quite  gone,  dearest,  hasn't  it?"  she  in- 
quired, sweetly. 

Thelma  eyed  her  gravely.  "I  did  not  suffer  from  headache, 
Clara,"  she  said.  "I  was  a  little  tired,  but  I  am  quite  rested 
now." 

Lady  Winsleigh  bit  her  lips  rather  vexedly,  but  said  no 
more,  and  at  that  moment  exclamations  of  delight  broke  from 
all  assembled  at  the  brilliant  scene  that  suddenly  flashed  upon 
their  eyes.  Electricity,  that  radiant  sprite  whose  magic  wand 
has  lately  been  bent  to  the  service  of  man,  had  in  less  than  a 
minute  played  such  dazzling  pranks  in  the  gardens  that  they 
resembled  the  fabled  treasurehouses  discovered  by  Aladdin. 
Every  tree  glittered  with  sparkling  clusters  of  red,  blue,  and 
green  light — every  flower-bed  was  bordered  with  lines  and  cir- 
cles of  harmless  flame,  and  the  fountains  tossed  up  tall 
columns  of  amber,  rose,  and  amethyst  spray  against  the  soft 


THELMA.  339 

blue  darkness  of  the  sky  in  which  a  lustrous  golden  moon  had 
just  risen.  The  brilliancy  of  the  illumination  showed  up  several 
dark  figures  strolhng  in  couples  about  the  grounds — romantic 
persons  evidently  who  were  not  to  be  persuaded  to  come  in- 
doors, even  for  the  music  of  the  band,  which  just  then  burst 
forth  invitingly  through  the  open  windows  of  the  picture- 
gallery. 

Two  of  these  pensive  wanderers  were  Marcia  Van  Clupp  and 
Lord  Algernon  Masherville — and  Lord  Algy  was  in  a  curiously 
sentimental  frame  of  mind,  and  w^eak  withal,  "comme  une 
petite  queue  d'agneau  afflige."  He  had  taken  a  good  deal  of 
Boda  and  brandy  for  his  bilious  headache,  and,  physically,  he 
was  much  better — but  mentally  he  was  not  quite  his  ordinary 
self.  By  this  it  must  not  be  understood  he  was  at  all  un- 
steadied  by  the  potency  of  his  medicinal  tipple — he  was  simply 
in  a  bland  humor — that  peculiar  sort  of  humor  which  finds 
strange  and  mystic  beauty  in  everything,  and  contemplates  the 
meanest  trifles  with  emotions  of  large  benevolence.  He  was 
conversational  too,  and  inclined  to  quote  poetry — this  sort 
of  susceptibleness  often  afl^ects  gentlemen  after  they  have 
had  an  excellent  dinner  flavored  with  the  finest  Burgundy. 
Lord  Algy  was  as  mild,  as  tame,  and  as  flabby  as  a  sleeping 
jelly  fish — and  in  this  inoffensive,  almost  tender  mood  of  his, 
Marcia  pounced  upon  him.  She  looked  ravishingly  pretty  in 
the  moonlight,  with  a  white  wrap  thrown  carelessly  round  her 
head  and  shoulders,  and  her  bold,  bird-like  eyes  sparkling  with 
excitement  (for  who  that  knows  the  pleasure  of  sport,  is  not 
excited  when  the  fox  is  nearly  run  to  earth?),  and  she  stood 
with  him  beside  one  of  the  smaller  illuminated  fountains, 
raising  her  small  white  hand  every  now  and  then  to  catch 
some  of  the  rainbow  drops,  and  then  with  a  laugh  she  would 
shake  them  off  her  little  pearly  nails  into  the  air  again.  Poor 
Masherville  could  not  help  gazing  at  her  with  a  lack-luster 
admiration  in  his  pale  eyes — and  Marcia,  calculating  every 
move  in  her  own  shrewd  mind,  saw  it.  She  turned  her  head 
away  with  a  petulant  yet  coquettish  movement. 

"My  patience!"  she  exclaimed;  "yew  kin  stare!  Yew'll 
know  me  again  w^hen  yew  see  me — say?" 

*T  should  know  you  anywhere,"  declared  Masherville,  nerv- 
ously fumbling  with  the  string  of  his  eye-glass.  "It's  im- 
possible to  forget  your  face.  Miss  Marcia!" 

She  was  silent,  and  kept  that  face  turned  from  him  so  long 


340  THELMA. 

that  the  gentle  little  lord  was  surprised.  He  approached  her 
more  closely  and  took  her  hand — the  hand  that  had  played 
with  the  drops  in  the  fountain.  It  was  such  an  astonishingly 
small  hand — so  very  fragile  looking  and  tiny,  that  he  was  al- 
most for  putting  up  his  eye-glass  to  survey  it  as  if  it  were  a 
separate  object  in  a  museum.  But  the  faintest  pressure  of  the 
delicate  fingers  he  held  startled  him,  and  sent  the  most  curious 
thrill  through  his  body — and  when  he  spoke  he  was  in  such  a 
flutter  that  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  was  saying. 

"Miss — Miss  Marcia!"  he  stammered,  "have — have  I  said — 
anything  to — to  offend  you?" 

Very  slowly,  and  with  seeming  reluctance,  she  turned  her 
head  toward  him,  and — oh,  thou  mischievous  Puck,  that  some- 
times takest  upon  thee  the  semblance  of  Eros,  what  skill  is 
thine!  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes — real  tears — bright, 
large  tears  that  welled  up  and  fell  through  her  long  lashes  in 
the  most  beautiful,  touching,  and  becoming  manner!  "And," 
thought  Marcia  to  herself,  "if  I  don't  fetch  him  now,  I  never 
will!"  Lord  Algy  was  quite  frightened — his  poor  brain  grew 
more  and  more  bewildered. 

"Why — Miss  Marcia!  I  say!  Look  here!"  he  mumbled  in 
his  extremity,  squeezing  her  little  hand  tighter  and  tighter. 
"What — what  have  I  done!  Good  gracious!  You — you  really 
mustn't  cry,  you  know — I  say — look  here!  Marcia,  I  wouldn't 
vex  you  for  the  world!" 

*'Yew  bet  yew  wouldn't!"  said  Marcia,  with  slow  and  nasal 
plaintiveness.  "I  like  that!  That's  the  way  yew  English 
talk.  But  yew  kin  hang  round  a  girl  a  whole  season  and  make 
all  her  folks  think  badly  of  her — and — and — break  her  heart 
— yes — that's  so!"  Here  she  dried  her  eyes  with  a  filmy  lace 
handkerchief.  "But  don't  yew  mind  me!  I  kin  bear  it.  I  kin 
worry  through!"  And  she  drew  herself  np  with  dignified 
resignation,  while  Lord  Algy  stared  wildly  at  her,  his  feeble 
mind  in  a  whirl.  Presently  she  smiled  most  seductively,  and 
looked  up  with  her  dark,  tear-wet  eyes  to  the  moon. 

"I  guess  it's  a  good  night  for  lovers,"  she  said,  sinking  her 
ordinary  tone  to  an  almost  sweet  cadence.  "But  we're  not 
of  that  sort,  are  we?" 

The  die  was  cast!  She  looked  so  charming — so  irresistible, 
that  Masherville  lost  all  hold  over  his  wits.  Scarcely  knowing 
what  he  did,  he  put  his  arm  round  her  waist.  Oh,  what  a 
warm,  yielding  waist!    He  drew  her  close  to  his  breast,  at  the 


THBLMA.  341 

risk  of  breaking  his  most  valuable  eyeglass,  and  felt  his  poor 
weak  soul  in  a  quiver  of  excitement  at  this  novel  and  delicious 
sensation. 

"We  are — we  are  of  that  sort!"  he  declared,  courageously. 
"Why  should  you  doubt  it,  Marcia?" 

"I'll  believe  yew  if  yew  say  so,"  responded  Marcia.  "But  I 
guess  yew're  only  fooling  me!" 

"Fooling  you!"  Lord  Algy  was  so  surprised  that  he  released 
her  quite  suddenly  from  his  embrace — so  suddenly  that  she 
was  a  little  frightened.    Was  she  to  lose  Mm,  after  all? 

"Marcia,"  he  continued  mildly,  yet  with  a  certain  manliness 
that  did  not  ill  become  him,  "I — I  hope  I  am  too  much  of — 
of  a  gentleman  to — to  'fool'  any  woman,  least  of  all  you,  after 
I  have,  as  you  say,  compromised  you  in  society  by  my — my 
attentions.  I — I  have  very  little  to  offer  you — but  such  as  it 
is,  is  yours.  In — in  short,  Marcia,  I — I  will  try  to  make  you 
happy  if  you  can — can  care  for  me  enough  to — to — marry 
me!" 

Eureka!  The  game  was  won!  A  vision  of  Masherville 
Park,  Yorkshire,  that  "well-timbered  and  highly  desirable 
residence,"  as  the  auctioneers  would  describe  it,  flitted  before 
Marcia's  eyes — and,  filled  with  triumph,  she  went  straight  into 
her  lordly  wooer's  arms,  and  kissed  him  with  thorough  trans- 
atlantic frankness.  She  was  really  grateful  to  him.  Ever 
since  she  had  come  to  England  she  had  plotted  and  schemed  to 
become  "my  lady"  with  all  the  vigor  of  a  purely  republican 
soul — and  now  at  last,  after  hard  fighting,  she  had  won  the 
prize  for  which  her  soul  had  yearned.  She  would  in  future 
belong  to  the  English  aristocracy — that  aristocracy  which  her 
relatives  in  New  York  pretended  to  despise,  yet  openly  flat- 
tered— and  with  her  arms  round  the  trapped  Masherville's 
neck,  she  foresaw  the  delight  she  would  have  in  being  toadied 
by  them  as  far  as  toadyism  could  be  made  to  go. 

She  is  by  no  means  presented  to  the  reader  as  a  favorable 
type  of  her  nation — for,  of  course,  every  one  knows  there  are 
plenty  of  sweet,  unselfish,  guileless  American  girls,  who  are 
absolutely  incapable  of  such  unblushing  marriage-scheming 
as  hers — but  what  else  could  be  expected  from  Marcia?  Her 
grandfather,  the  navvy,  had  but  recently  become  endowed 
with  Pilgrim-Father  Ancestry — and  her  maternal  uncle  was  a 
boastful  pork-dealer  in  Cincinnati.  It  was  her  bounden  duty 
to  ennoble  the  family  somehow — surely,  if  any  one  had  a 


342  THELMA. 

right  to  be  ambitious,  she  was  that  one!  And  while  proud 
dreams  of  her  future  passed  through  her  brain,  little  Lord 
Algy  quivered  meekly  under  her  kiss,  and  returned  it  with 
all  the  enthusiasm  of  which  he  was  capable.  One  or  two 
faint  misgivings  troubled  him  as  to  whether  he  had  not  been 
just  a  little  too  hasty  in  making  a  serious  bona  fide  offer  of  mar- 
riage to  the  young  lady  by  whose  Pilgrim  progenitors  he  was 
not  deceived.  He  knew  well  enough  what  her  antecedents 
were,  and  a  faint  shudder  crossed  him  as  he  thought  of  the 
pork-dealing  uncle,  who  would,  by  marriage,  become  his 
uncle  also.  He  had  long  been  proud  of  the  fact  that  the 
house  of  Masherville  had  never,  through  the  course  of  cen^ 
turies,  been  associated,  even  in  the  remotest  manner,  with 
trade — and  now — 

"Yet,  after  all,"  he  mused,  "the  Marquis  of  Londonderry 
openly  advertises  himself  as  a  coal-merchant,  and  the  brothers- 
in-law  of  the  Princess  Louise  are  in  the  wine  trade  and  stock- 
JDroking  business — and  all  the  old  knightly  blood  of  England 
is  mingling  itself  by  choice  with  that  of  the  lowest  commoners 
—what's  the  use  of  my  remaining  aloof,  and  refusing  to  go 
with  the  spirit  of  the  age?  Besides,  Marcia  loves  me — and  it's 
pleasant  to  be  loved!" 

Poor  Lord  Algy!  He  certainly  thought  there  could  be  no 
question  about  Marcia's  affection  for  him.  He  little  dreamed 
that  it  was  to  his  title  and  position  she  had  become  so  deeply 
attached — he  could  not  guess  that  after  he  had  married  her 
there  would  be  no  more  Lord  Masherville  worth  mentioning — 
that  that  individual,  once  independent,  would  be  entirely 
swallowed  up  and  lost  in  the  dashing  personality  of  Lady 
Masherville,  who  would  rule  her  husband  as  with  a  rod  of 
iron. 

He  was  happily  ignorant  of  his  future  and  he  walked  in  the 
gardens  for  some  time  with  his  arm  round  Marcia's  waist,  in  a 
very  placid  and  romantic  frame  of  mind.  By  and  by  he  es- 
corted her  into  the  house,  where  the  dancing  was  in  full  swing 
— and  she,  with  a  sweet  smile,  bidding  him  wait  for  her  in  the 
refreshment-room,  sought  for  and  found  her  mother,  who,  as 
usual,  was  seated  in  a  quiet  corner  with  Mrs.  Rush-Marvelle, 
talking  scandal. 

"Well?"  exclaimed  these  two  ladies,  simultaneously  and 
breathlessly. 


THELMA.  343 

Marcia's  eyes  twinkled.  "Guess  he  came  in  as  gently  as  a 
lamb!"  she  said. 

They  understood  her.  Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle  rose  from  her 
chair  in  her  usual  stately  and  expansive  manner. 

"I  congratulate  you,  my  dear!"  kissing  Marcia  affectionately 
on  both  cheeks.  "Bruce-Errington  would  have  been  a  better 
match — but,  under  the  circumstances,  Masherville  is  really 
about  the  best  thing  you  could  do.  You'll  find  him  quite  easy 
to  manage!"  This  with  an  air  as  though  she  were  recommend- 
ing a  quiet  pony. 

"That's  so!"  said  Marcia,  carelessly.  "I  guess  we'll  pull  to- 
gether somehow.  Mar-ma,"  to  her  mother — "yew  kin  turn 
on  the  news  to  all  the  folks  yew  meet — the  more  talk  the 
better!  I'm  not  partial  to  secrets!"  And  with  a  laugh,  she 
turned  away. 

Then  Mrs.  Van  Clupp  laid  her  plump,  diamond-ringed 
hand  on  that  of  her  dear  friend,  Mrs.  Marvelle. 

"You  have  managed  the  whole  thing  beautifully,"  she  said, 
with  a  grateful  heave  of  her  ample  bosom.  "Such  a  clever 
creature  as  you  are!"  She  dropped  her  voice  to  a  mysterious 
whisper.     "You  shall  have  that  check  to-morrow,  my  love!" 

Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle  pressed  her  fingers  cordially, 

"Don't  hurry  yourself  about  it!"  she  returned  in  the  same 
confidential  tone.  "I  dare  say  you'll  want  me  to  arrange  the 
wedding  and  the  'crush'  afterward.    I  can  wait  till  then." 

"No,  no!  that's  a  separate  affair,"  declared  Mrs.  Van  Clupp. 
"1  must  insist  on  your  taking  the  promised  two  hundred. 
You've  been  really  so  very  energetic!" 

"Well,  I  have  worked  rather  hard,"  said  Mrs.  Marvelle,  with 
modest  self-consciousness.  "You  see  nowadays  it's  so  diffi- 
cult to  secure  suitable  husbands  for  the  girls  who  ought  to 
have  them.     Men  are  such  slippery  creatures!" 

She  sighed,  and  Mrs.  Van  Clupp  echoed  the  sigh,  and  then 
these  two  ladies — the  nature  of  whose  intimacy  may  now  be 
understood  by  the  discriminating  reader — went  together  to 
search  out  those  of  their  friends  and  acquaintances  who  were 
among  the  guests  that  night,  and  to  announce  to  them  (in  the 
strictest  confidence,  of  course!)  the  delightful  news  of  "dear 
Marcia's  engagement."  Thelma  heard  of  it,  and  went  at  once 
to  proffer  her  congratulations  to  Marcia  in  person. 

"I  hope  you  will  be  very,  very  happy!"  she  said  simply,  yet 
with  such  grave  earnestness  in  her  look  and  voice  that  the 


344  THELMA. 

"Yankee  gel"  was  touched  to  a  certain  softness  and  serious- 
ness not  at  all  usual  with  her,  and  became  so  winning  and 
gentle  to  Lord  Algy  that  he  felt  in  the  seventh  heaven  of 
delight  with  his  now  position  as  affianced  lover  to  so  charm- 
ing a  creature. 

Meanwhile  George  Lorimer  and  Pierre  Duprez  were  chat- 
ting together  in  the  library.  It  was  very  quiet  there — the 
goodly  row  of  books,  the  busts  of  poets  and  philosophers — 
the  large,  placid  features  of  Pallas  Athene  crowning  an  an- 
tique pedestal — the  golden  pipes  of  the  organ  gleaming 
through  the  shadows — all  these  gave  a  solemn,  almost  sacred 
aspect  to  the  room.  The  noise  of  the  dancing  and  festivity 
in  the  distant  picture-gallery  did  not  penetrate  here,  and 
Lorimer  sat  at  the  organ,  drawing  out  a  few  plaintive  strains 
from  its  keys  as  he  talked. 

"It's  your  fancy,  Pierre,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Thelma  may 
be  a  little  tired  to-day,  perhaps — but  I  know  she's  perfectly 
happy." 

"I  think  not  so,"  returned  Duprez.  "She  has  not  the 
brightness — the  angel  look — les  yeux  d' enfant — that  we  be- 
held in  her  at  that  far  Norwegian  fjord.  Britta  is  anxious 
for  her." 

Lorimer  looked  up,  and  smiled  a  little. 

"Britta?  It's  always  Britta  with  you,  mon  cher!  One 
would  think — "  he  paused  and  laughed. 

"Think  what  you  please!"  exclaimed  Duprez,  with  a  defiant 
snap  of  his  fingers.  "I  would  not  give  that  little  person  for 
all  thegrandes  dames  here  to-day!  She  is  charming — and  she 
is  true!  Mafoi! — to  be  true  to  any  one  is  a  virtue  in  this 
age!  I  tell  you,  my  good  boy,  there  is  something  sorrowful 
— heavy— on  la  belle  Thelma's  mind — and  Britta,  who  sees 
her  always,  feels  it — but  she  can  not  speak.  One  thing  I  will 
tell  you — it  is  a  pity  she  is  so  fond  of  Miladi  Winsleigh." 

"Why?"  asked  Lorimer,  with  some  eagerness. 

"Because — "  he  stopped  abruptly  as  a  white  figure  sud- 
denly appeared  at  the  doorway,  and  a  musical  voice  addressed 
them. 

"Why,  what  are  you  both  doing  here,  away  from  every- 
body?" and  Thelma  smiled  as  she  approached.  "You  are  her- 
mits, or  you  are  lazy!  People  are  going  in  to  supper.  Will 
you  not  come  also?" 

"Mafoi!"  exclaimed  Duprez;  "I  had  forgotten!     I  have 


THELMA.  345 

promised  your  most  charming  mother,  clier  Lorimer,  to  take 
her  in  to  tliis  same  supper.  1  must  fly  upon  the  wings  of 
chivalry!" 

And  with  a  laugh,  he  hurried  off,  leaving  Thelma  and  Lori- 
mer  alone  together.  She  sunk  rather  wearily  into  a  chair  near 
the  organ,  and  looked  at  him. 

"Play  me  something!"  she  said,  softly. 

A  strange  thrill  quivered  through  him  as  he  met  her  eyes — 
the  sweet,  deep,  earnest  eyes  of  the  woman  he  loved.  For  it 
was  no  use  attempting  to  disguise  it  from  himself — he  loved 
her  passionately,  wildly,  hopelessly;  as  he  had  loved  her  from 
the  first. 

Obedient  to  her  wish,  his  fingers  wandered  over  the  organ- 
keys  in  a  strain  of  solemn,  weird,  yet  tender  melancholy — the 
grand,  rich  notes  pealed  forth  sobbingly,  and  she  listened,  her 
hands  clasped  idly  in  her  lap.  Presently  he  changed  the 
theme  to  one  of  more  heart-appealing  passion,  and  a  strange 
wild  minor  air,  like  the  rushing  of  the  wind  across  the  moun- 
tains, began  to  make  itself  heard  through  the  subdued  rippling 
murmur  of  his  improvised  accompaniment.  To  his  surprise 
and  fear,  she  started  up,  pressing  her  hands  against  her  ears. 

"Not  that — not  that  song,  my  friend!"  she  cried,  almost  im- 
ploringly. "Oh,  it  will  break  my  heart!  Oh,  the  Alten 
Fjord!"    And  she  gave  way  to  a  passion  of  weeping. 

"Thelma!  Thelma!"  and  poor  Lorimer,  rising  from  the 
organ,  stood  gazing  at  her  in  piteous  dismay — every  nerve  in 
his  body  wrung  to  anguish  by  the  sound  of  her  sobbing.  A 
mad  longing  seized  him  to  catch  her  in  his  arms — to  gather 
her  and  her  sorrows,  whatever  they  were,  to  his  heart!  and  he 
had  much  ado  to  restrain  himself. 

"Thelma,"  he  presently  said,  in  a  gentle  voice  that  trembled 
just  a  little,  "Thelma,  what  is  troubling  you?  You  call  me 
your  brother — give  me  a  brother's  right  to  your  confidence." 
He  bent  over  her  and  took  her  hand.  "I — I  can't  bear  to  see 
you  cry  like  this!  Tell  me — what's  the  matter?  Let  me  fetch 
Philip." 

She  looked  up  with  wet,  wild  eyes  and  quivering  lips. 

"Oh,  no — no!"  she  murmured,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty  and 
alarm.  "Do  not — Philip  must  not  know.  I  do  wish  him 
always  to  see  me  bright  and  cheerful — and — it  is  nothing!  It 
is  that  I  heard  something  which  grieved  me." 


346  THELMA. 


"^ 


'What   was   it?"   asked   Lorimer,   remembering   Duprez's 
recent  remark. 

"Oh,  I  would  not  tell  you,"  she  said  eagerly,  drying  her  eyes 
and  endeavoring  to  smile,  "because  I  am  sure  it  was  a  mis- 
take, and  all  wrong — and  I  was  foolish  to  fancy  that  such  a 
thing  could  be,  even  for  a  moment.  But  when  one  does  not 
know  the  worid,  it  seems  cruel — " 

"Thelma,  what  do  you  mean?"  and  George  surveyed  her  in 
some  perplexity.  "If  any  one's  been  bothering  or  vexing  you, 
just  you  tell  Phil  all  about  it.  Don't  have  any  secrets  from 
him — he'll  soon  put  everything  straight,  whatever  it  is." 

She  shook  her  head  slightly.  "Ah,  you  do  not  understand!" 
she  said,  pathetically;  "how  should  you?  Because  you  have 
not  given  your  life  away  to  any  one,  and  it  is  all  different  with 
you.  But  when  you  do  love — if  you  are  at  all  like  me — you 
will  be  so  anxious  to  always  seem  worthy  of  love — and  you 
will  hide  all  your  griefs  away  from  your  beloved,  so  that  your 
constant  presence  shall  not  seem  tiresome.  And  I  would  not 
for  all  the  world  trouble  Philip  with  my  silly  fancies,  because 
then  he  might  grow  more  weary  still — " 

"Weary!"  interrupted  Lorimer,  in  an  accent  of  emphatic 
surprise.  "Why,  you  don't  suppose  Phil's  tired  of  you, 
Thelma?  That  is  nonsense  indeed!  He  worships  you!  Who's 
been  putting  such  notions  into  your  head?" 

She  rose  from  her  chair  quite  calm  and  very  pale,  and  laid 
her  two  trembling  hands  in  his. 

"Ah,  you  also  will  mistake  me,"  she  said,  with  touching 
sweetness,  "like  so  many  others  who  think  me  strange  in  my 
speech  and  manner.  I  am  sorry  I  am  not  Hke  other  women — 
but  I  can  not  help  it.  What  I  do  wish  you  to  understand  is 
that  I  never  suppose  an3^hing  against  my  Philip — he  is  the 
noblest  and  best  of  men!  And  you  must  promise  not  to  tell 
him  that  I  was  so  foolish  as  to  cry  just  now  because  you 
played  that  old  song  I  sung  to  you  both  so  often  in  Norway — 
it  was  because  I  felt  a  little  sad — but  it  was  only  a  fancy — 
and  I  would  not  have  him  troubled  with  such  things.  Will 
you  promise?" 

"But  what  has  made  you  sad?"  persisted  Lorimer,  still 
puzzled. 

"Nothing — nothing  indeed,"  she  answered,  with  almost 
feverish  earnestness.  "You  yourself  are  sometimes  sad^  and 
can  you  tell  why?" 


THELMA.  347 

Lorimer  certainly  could  have  told  why — but  he  remained 
silent,  and  gently  kissed  the  little  hands  he  held. 

"Then  I  mustn't  tell  Philip  of  your  sadness?"  he  asked 
softly,  at  last.  "But  will  you  tell  him  yourself,  Thelma? 
Depend  upon  it,  it's  much  better  to  have  no  secrets  from  him. 
The  least  grief  of  yours  would  affect  him  more  than  the  down- 
fall of  a  kingdom.    You  know  how  dearly  he  loves  you!" 

"Yes,  I  know!"  she  answered,  and  her  eyes  brightened 
slowly.  "And  that  is  why  I  wish  him  always  to  see  me 
happy!"  She  paused,  and  then  added  in  a  lower  tone,  "I 
would  rather  die,  my  friend,  than  vex  him  for  one  hour!" 

George  still  held  her  hands  and  looked  wistfully  in  her  face. 
He  was  about  to  speak  again,  when  a  cold,  courteous  voice 
interrupted  them. 

"Lady  Errington,  may  I  have  the  honor  of  taking  you  in  to 
supper?" 

It  was  Sir  Francis  Lennox.  He  had  entered  quite  noise- 
lessly, his  footsteps  making  no  sound  on  the  thick  velvet-pile 
carpet,  and  he  stood  close  to  Lorimer,  who  dropped  Thelma's 
hands  hastily  and  darted  a  suspicious  glance  at  the  intruder. 
But  Sir  Francis  was  the  very  picture  of  unconcerned  and  bland 
politeness,  and  offered  Thelma  his  arm  with  the  graceful  ease 
of  an  accomplished  courtier.  She  was  perforce  compelled  to 
accept  it,  and  she  was  slightly  confused,  though  she  could  not 
have  told  why. 

"Sir  Philip  has  been  looking  everywhere  for  you,"  con- 
tinued Sir  Francis,  amicably.  "x\nd  for  you  also,"  he  added, 
turning  slightly  to  Lorimer.  "I  trust  I've  not  abruptly  broken 
off  a  pleasant  tete-a-tete  ?" 

Lorimer  colored  hotly.  "Not  at  all!"  he  said  rather 
brusquely.  "I've  been  strumming  on  the  organ,  and  Lady 
Errington  has  been  good  enough  to  listen  to  me." 

"You  do  not  strum,"  said  Thelma,  with  gentle  reproach. 
"You  play  very  beautifully." 

"Ah!  a  charming  accomplishment!"  observed  Sir  Francis, 
with  his  under-glance  and  covert  smile,  as  they  all  three 
wended  their  way  out  of  the  library.  "I  regret  I  have  never 
had  time  to  devote  myself  to  acquiring  some  knowledge  of  the 
arts.  In  music  I  am  a  positive  ignoramus!  I  can  hold  my 
own  best  in  the  field." 

"Yes,  you're  a  great  adept  at  hunting,  Lennox,"  remarked 


348  THELMA. 

Lorimer,  suddenly,  with  something  sarcastic  in  his  tone.  "I 
suppose  the  quarry  never  escapes  you?" 

"Seldom!"  returned  Sir  Francis,  coolly.  "Indeed,  I  think  I 
may  say,  never!" 

And  with  that  he  passed  into  the  supper-room,  elhowing  a 
way  for  Tlielma,  till  he  succeeded  in  placing  her  near  the  head 
of  the  table,  where  she  was  soon  busily  occupied  in  entertain- 
ing her  guests  and  listening  to  their  chatter;  and  Lorimer, 
looking  at  her  once  or  twice,  saw,  to  his  great  relief,  that  all 
traces  of  her  former  agitation  had  disappeared,  leaving  her 
face  fair  and  radiant  as  a  spring  morning. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 


A  generous  fierceness  dwells  with  innocence, 
And  conscious  virtue  is  allowed  some  pride. 

Dryden. 

The  melancholy  days  of  autumn  came  on  apace,  and  by  and 
by  the  manor  was  deserted.  The  Bruce-Errington  establish- 
ment removed  again  to  town,  where  business,  connected  with 
his  intending  membership  for  Parliament,  occupied  Sir  Philip 
from  morning  till  night.  The  old  insidious  feeling  of  depres- 
sion returned  and  hovered  over  Thelma's  mind  like  a  black 
bird  of  ill  omen,  and  though  she  did  her  best  to  shake  it  off 
she  could  not  succeed.  People  began  to  notice  her  deepening 
seriousness  and  the  wistful  melancholy  of  her  blue  eyes,  and 
made  their  remarks  thereon  when  they  saw  her  at  Marcia  Van 
Clupp's  wedding,  an  event  which  came  off  brilliantly  at  the 
commencement  of  November,  and  which  was  almost  entirely 
presided  over  by  Mrs.  Eush-Marvelle.  That  far-seeing  matron 
had  indeed  urged  on  the  wedding  by  every  delicate  expedient 
possible. 

"Long  engagements  are  a  great  mistake,"  she  told  Marcia — 
then,  in  a  warning  undertone,  she  added:  "Men  are  capri- 
cious nowadays — they're  all  so  much  in  demand.  Better  take 
Masherville  while  he's  in  the  humor." 

Marcia  accepted  this  hint  and  took  him,  and  Mrs.  Rush- 
Marvelle  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  when  she  saw  the  twain  safely 


THELMA.  349 

married  and  ofF  to  the  Continent  on  their  honeymoon  trip — 
Marcia  all  sparkling  and  triumphant,  Lord  Algy  tremulous 
and  feebly  ecstatic. 

"Thank  Heaven  that's  over!"  she  said  to  her  polite  and  serv- 
ile husband.  "I  never  had  such  a  troublesome  business  in 
my  life!  That  girl's  been  nearly  two  seasons  on  my  hands, 
and  I  think  five  hundred  guineas  not  a  bit  too  much  for  all 
I've  done." 

"Not  a  bit — not  a  bit!"  agreed  Mr.  Marvelle,  warmly. 
"Have  they — have  they" — here  he  put  on  a  most  benevolent 
side  look — "quite  settled  with  you,  my  dear?" 

"Every  penny,"  replied  Mrs.  Marvelle,  calmly.  "Old  Van 
Clupp  paid  me  the  last  hundred  this  morning.  And  poor  Mrs. 
Van  Clupp  is  so  very  grateful!"  She  sighed  placidly,  and  ap- 
peared to  meditate.  Then  she  smiled  sweetly  and,  approach- 
ing Mr.  Marvelle,  patted  his  shoulder  caressingly.  "I  think 
we'll  do  the  Italian  lakes,  dear — what  do  you  say?" 

"Charming — charming!"  declared,  not  her  lord  and  master, 
but  her  slave  and  vassal.  "Nothing  could  be  more  delight- 
ful!" 

And  to  the  Italian  lakes  accordingly  they  went.  A  great 
many  people  were  out  of  town — all  who  had  leisure  and  money 
enough  to  liberate  themselves  from  the  approaching  evils  of 
an  English  winter  had  departed  or  were  departing.  Beau 
Lovelace  had  gone  to  Como,  George  Lorimer  had  returned 
with  Duprez  to  Paris,  and  Thelma  had  very  few  visitors  ex- 
cept Lady  Winsleigh,  who  was  more  often  with  her  now  than 
ever.  In  fact,  her  ladyship  was  more  like  one  of  the  Erring- 
ton  household  than  anything  else — she  came  so  frequently  and 
stayed  so  long.  She  seemed  sincerely  attached  to  Thelma, 
and  Thelma  herself,  too  single-hearted  and  simple  to  imagine 
that  such  affection  could  be  feigned,  gave  her  in  return  what 
Lady  Winsleigh  had  never  succeeded  in  winning  from  any 
woman — a  pure,  trusting,  and  utterly  imsuspecting  love,  such 
as  she  would  have  lavished  on  a  twin-born  sister.  But  there 
was  one  person  who  was  not  deceived  by  Lady  Winsleigh's 
charm  of  manner  and  grace  of  speech.  This  was  Britta.  Her 
keen  eyes  flashed  a  sort  of  unuttered  defiance  into  her  lady- 
ship's beautiful,  dark  languishing  ones — she  distrusted  her, 
and  viewed  the  intimacy  between  her  and  the  "Froken"  with 
entire  disfavor.  Once  she  ventured  to  express  something  of 
her  feeling  on  the  matter  to  Thelma — but  Thelma  had  looked 


350  THELMA. 

SO  gently  wondering  and  reproachful  that  Britta  had  not  cour- 
age to  go  on. 

"I  am  sorry,  Britta,"  said  her  mistress,  "that  you  do  not  like 
Lady  Winsleigh,  because  I  am  very  fond  of  her.  You  must 
try  to  like  her  for  my  sake." 

But  Britta  pursed  her  lips  and  shook  her  head  obstinately. 
However,  she  said  no  more  at  the  time,  and  decided  within 
herself  to  wait  and  watch  the  course  of  events.  And  in  the 
meantime  she  became  very  intimate  with  Lady  Winsleigh's 
maid,  Louise  Eenaud,  and  Briggs,  and  learned  from  these  two 
domestic  authorities  many  things  which  greatly  tormented 
and  puzzled  her  little  brain — things  over  which  she  pondered 
deeply  without  arriving  at  any  satisfactory  conclusion. 

On  her  return  to  town,  Thelma  had  been  inexpressibly 
shocked  at  the  changed  appearance  of  her  husband's  secretary, 
Edward  Neville.  At  first  she  scarcely  knew  him,  he  had 
altered  so  greatly.  Always  inclined  to  stoop,  his  shoulders 
were  now  bent  as  by  the  added  weight  of  twenty  years — his 
hair,  once  only  grizzled,  was  now  quite  gray — his  face  was 
deeply  sunken  and  pale,  and  his  eyes  by  contrast  looked  large 
and  wild,  as  though  some  haunting  thought  were  driving  him 
to  madness.  He  shrunk  so  nervously  from  her  gaze  that  she 
began  to  fancy  he  must  have  taken  some  dislike  to  her — and 
though  she  delicately  refrained  from  pressing  questions  upon 
him  personally  she  spoke  to  her  husband  about  him  with  real 
solicitude.  "Is  Mr.  Neville  working  too  hard?"  she  asked  one 
day.    "He  looks  very  ill." 

Her  remarks  seemed  to  embarrass  Philip — he  colored  and 
seemed  confused. 

"Does  he?  Oh,  I  suppose  he  sleeps  badly.  Yes,  I  remem- 
ber, he  told  me  so.  You  see,  the  loss  of  his  wife  has  always 
preyed  on  his  mind — he  never  loses  hope  of — of — that  is — he 
is  always  trying  to — you  know! — to  get  her  back  again." 

"But  do  you  think  he  will  ever  find  her?"  asked  Thelma. 
I  thought  you  said  it  was  a  hopeless  case?" 

Well — I  think  so,  certainly — but,  you  see,  it's  no  good 
dashing  his  hopes — one  never  knows — she  might  turn  up  any 
day — it's  a  sort  of  chance!" 

"I  wish  I  could  help  him  to  search  for  her,"  she  said,  com- 
passionately. "His  eyes  do  look  so  full  of  sorrow."  She 
paused  and  added,  musingly:  "Almost  like  Sigurd's  eyes 
sometimes." 


THELMA.  351 

"Oh,  he's  not  losing  his  wits/'  said  Philip,  hastily;  "he's 
quite  patient,  and — and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Don't  bother 
about  him,  Thelma,  he's  all  right!" 

And  he  fumbled  hastily  with  some  papers,  and  began  to  talk 
of  something  else.  His  embarrassed  manner  caused  her  to 
wonder  a  little  at  the  time  as  to  the  reason  of  it — but  she  had 
many  other  things  to  think  about,  and  she  soon  forgot  a  con- 
versation that  might  have  proved  a  small  guiding  link  in  the 
chain  of  events  that  were  soon  about  to  follow  quickly  one 
upon  another,  shaking  her  life  to  its  very  foundation.  Lady 
Winsleigh  found  it  almost  impossible  to  get  her  on  the  subject 
of  the  burlesque  actress,  Violet  Vere,  and  Sir  Philip's  sup- 
posed admiration  for  that  notorious  stage  siren. 

"I  do  not  believe  it,"  she  said,  firmly,  "and  you — you  must 
not  believe  it  either,  Clara.  For  wherever  you  heard  it,  it  is 
wrong.  We  should  dishonor  Philip  by  such  a  thought— you 
are  his  friend,  and  I  am  his  wife — we  are  not  the  ones  to  be- 
lieve anything  against  him,  even  if  it  could  be  proved — and 
there  are  no  proofs." 

"My  dear,"  responded  her  ladyship,  easily,  "you  can  get 
proofs  for  yourself  if  you  like.  For  instance,  ask  Sir  Philip 
how  often  he  has  seen  Miss  Vere  lately — and  hear  what  he 
says." 

Thelma  colored  deeply.  "I  would  not  question  my  husband 
on  such  a  subject,"  she  said,  proudly. 

"Oh,  well!  if  you  are  so  fastidious!"  And  Lady  Winsleigh 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  am  not  fastidious,"  returned  Thelma,  "only  I  do  wish  to 
be  worthy  of  his  love — and  I  should  not  be  so  if  I  doubted 
him.    No,  Clara,  I  will  trust  him  to  the  end." 

Clara  Winsleigh  drew  nearer  to  her,  and  took  her  hand. 

"Even  if  he  were  unfaithful  to  you?"  she  asked  in  a  low, 
impressive  tone. 

"Unfaithful!"  Thelma  uttered  the  word  with  a  little  cry. 
"Clara,  dear  Clara,  you  must  not  say  such  a  word!  Unfaith- 
ful! That  means  that  my  husband  would  love  some  one  more 
than  me!    Ah!   that  is  impossible!" 

"Suppose  it  were  possible  ?"  persisted  Lady  Winsleigh,  with 
a  cruel  light  in  her  dark  eyes.    "Such  things  have  been!" 

Thelma  stood  motionless,  a  deeply  mournful  expression  on 
her  fair,  pale  face.  She  seemed  to  think  for  a  moment,  then 
she  spoke. 


352  THELMA. 

"1  would  never  believe  it!"  she  said,  solemnly.  "Never, 
unless  I  heard  it  from  his  own  lips,  or  saw  it  in  his  own  writ- 
ing, that  he  was  weary  of  me,  and  wanted  me  no  more." 

"And  then?" 

"Then" — she  drew  a  quick  breath — "I  should  know  what  to 
do.  But,  Clara,  you  must  understand  me  well,  even  if  this 
were  so,  I  should  never  blame  him — no — not  once!" 

"Not  blame  him?"  cried  Lady  Winsleigh,  impatiently. 
"Not  blame  him  for  infidelity?" 

A  deep  blush  swept  over  her  face  at  the  hated  word  "in- 
fidelity," but  she  answered,  steadily: 

"No.  Because,  you  see,  it  would  be  my  fault,  not  his. 
When  you  hold  a  flower  in  your  hand  for  a  long  time,  till  all 
its  fragrance  has  gone,  and  you  drop  it  because  it  no  longer 
smells  sweetly,  you  are  not  to  blame;  it  is  natural  you  should 
wish  to  have  something  fresh  and  fragrant — is  it  the  flower's 
fault  because  it  could  not  keep  its  scent  long  enough  to  please 
you?  Now,  if  Philip  were  to  love  me  no  longer,  I  should  be 
like  that  flower,  and  how  would  he  be  to  blame?  He  would 
be  as  good  as  ever,  but  I — I  should  have  ceased  to  seem  pleas- 
ant to  him — that  is  all!" 

She  put  this  strange  view  of  the  case  quite  calmly,  as  if  it 
were  the  only  solution  to  the  question.  Lady  Winsleigh 
heard  her,  half  in  contemptuous  amusement,  half  in  dismay. 
"What  can  I  do  with  such  a  woman  as  this?"  she  thought. 
"And  fancy  Lennie  imagining  for  a  moment  that  he  could 
have  any  power  over  her!"    Aloud,  she  said: 

"Thelma,  you're  the  oddest  creature  going — a  regular 
heathen  child  from  Norway!  You've  set  up  your  husband  as 
an  idol,  and  you're  always  on  your  knees  before  him.  It's 
awfully  sweet  of  you,  but  it's  quite  absurd,  all  the  same. 
Angelic  wives  always  get  the  worst  of  it,  and  so  you'll  see! 
Haven't  you  heard  that?" 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  it,"  she  answered,  smiling  a  little.  "But 
only  since  I  came  to  London.  In  Norway,  it  is  taught  to 
women  that  to  be  patient  and  obedient  is  best  for  every  one. 
It  is  not  so  here.  But  I  am  not  an  angelic  wife,  Clara,  and  so 
the  'worst  of  it'  will  not  apply  to  me.  Indeed,  I  do  not  know 
of  any  'worst'  that  I  would  not  bear  for  Philip's  sake." 

Lady  Winsleigh  studied  the  lovely  face,  eloquent  with  love 
and  truth,  for  some  moments  in  silence.  A  kind  of  compunc- 
tion pricked  her  conscience.    Why  destroy  all  that  beautiful 


THELMA.  353 

faith?  Why  wound  that  grandly  trusting  nature?  The  feel- 
ing was  but  momentary. 

"Philip  does  run  after  the  Vere,"  she  said  to  herself — "it's 
true,  there's  no  mistake  about  it,  and  she  ought  to  know  of  it. 
But  she  won't  believe  without  proofs.  What  proofs  can  I  get, 
I  wonder?"  And  her  scheming  brain  set  to  work  to  solve  this 
problem. 

In  justice  to  her,  it  must  be  admitted,  she  had  a  good  deal 
of  seeming  truth  on  her  side.  Sir  Philip's  name  had  some- 
how got  connected  with  that  of  the  leading  actress  at  the  Bril- 
liant, and  more  than  Lady  Winsleigh  began  to  make  jocose 
whispering  comments  on  his  stage  "amour" — comments  be- 
hind his  back,  which  he  was  totally  unaware  of.  Nobody  knew 
quite  how  the  rumor  had  first  been  started.  Sir  Francis  Len- 
nox seemed  to  know  a  good  deal  about  it,  and  he  was  an 
"intimate"  of  the  "Vere"  magic  circle  of  attraction.  And 
though  they  talked,  no  one  ventured  to  say  anything  to  Sir 
Philip  himself;  the  only  two  among  his  friends  who  would 
have  spoken  out  honestly  were  Beau  Lovelace  and  Lorimer, 
and  these  were  absent. 

One  evening,  contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  Sir  Philip  went 
out  after  the  late  dinner.  Before  leaving,  he  kissed  his  wife 
tenderly,  and  told  her  on  no  account  to  sit  up  for  him — he  and 
Neville  were  going  to  attend  a  little  matter  of  business  which 
might  detain  them  longer  than  they  could  calculate.  After 
they  had  gone,  Thelma  resigned  herself  to  a  lonely  evening, 
and,  stirring  the  fire  in  the  drawing-room  to  a  cheerful  blaze, 
she  sat  down  beside  it.  First,  she  amused  herself  by  reading 
over  some  letters  recently  received  from  her  father — and  then, 
yielding  to  a  sudden  fancy,  she  drew  her  spinning-wheel  from 
the  corner  where  it  always  stood,  and  set  it  in  motion.  She 
had  little  time  for  spinning  now,  but  she  never  quite  gave  it 
up,  and  as  the  low,  familiar  whirring  sound  hummed  pleas- 
antly on  her  ears,  she  smiled,  thinking  how  quaint  and  almost 
incongruous  her  simple  instrument  of  industry  looked  among 
all  the  luxurious  furniture  and  costly  knick-knacks  by  which 
she  was  surrounded. 

"I  ought  to  have  one  of  my  old  gowns  on,"  she  half  mur- 
mured, glancing  down  at  the  pale  blue  silk  robe  she  wore — "I 
am  too  fine  to  spin!" 

And  she  almost  laughed  as  the  wheel  flew  round  swiftly 
under  her  graceful  manipulations.     Listening  to  its  whir, 

23 


354  THELMA. 

whir,  whir,  she  scarcely  heard  a  sudden  knock  at  the  street 
door,  and  was  quite  startled  when  the  servant,  Morris, 
announced: 

"Sir  Francis  Lennox!" 

Surprised,  she  rose  from  her  seat  at  the  spinning-wheel  with 
a  slight  air  of  hauteur.  Sir  Francis,  who  had  never  in  his  life 
seen  a  lady  of  title  and  fashion  in  London  engaged  in  the 
primitive  occupation  of  spinning,  was  entirely  delighted  with 
the  picture  before  him — the  tall,  lovely  woman  with  her  gold 
hair  and  shimmering  blue  draperies,  standing  with  such  state- 
liness  beside  the  simple  wooden  wheel,  the  antique  emblem  of 
household  industry.  Instinctively  he  thought  of  Marguerite; 
but  Marguerite  as  a  crowned  queen,  superior  to  all  tempta- 
tions of  either  man  or  fiend. 

"Sir  Philip  is  out,"  she  said,  as  she  suffered  him  to  take  her 
hand. 

"So  I  was  aware!"  returned  Lennox,  easily.  "I  saw  him  a 
little  while  ago  at  the  door  of  the  Brilliant  Theater." 

She  turned  very  pale — then  controlling  the  rapid  beating  of 
her  heart  by  a  strong  effort,  she  forced  a  careless  smile,  and 
said,  bravely: 

"Did  you?  I  am  very  glad — for  he  will  have  some  amuse- 
ment there,  perhaps,  and  that  will  do  him  good.  He  has  been 
working  so  hard!" 

She  paused.  He  said  nothing,  and  she  went  on  more  cheer- 
fully still: 

"Is  it  not  a  very  dismal,  wet  evening?  Yes! — and  you  mvist 
be  cold.    Will  you  have  some  tea?" 

"Tha-anks!"  drawled  Sir  Francis,  staring  at  her  admiringly. 
"If  it's  not  too  much  trouble — " 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Thelma.  "Why  should  it  be?"  And  she 
rang  the  bell  and  gave  the  order.  Sir  Francis  sunk  lazily  back 
in  an  easy  chair,  and  stroked  his  mustache  slowly.  He  knew 
that  his  random  hit  about  the  theater  had  struck  home — but 
she  allowed  the  arrow  to  pierce  and  possibly  wound  her  heart 
without  showing  any  outward  signs  of  discomposure.  "A 
plucky  woman!"  he  considered,  and  wondered  how  he  should 
make  his  next  move.  She,  meanwhile,  smiled  at  him  frankly, 
and  gave  a  light  twirl  to  her  spinning-wheel. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "I  was  amusing  myself  this  evening  by 
imagining  that  I  was  once  more  at  home  in  Norway." 

"Pray  don't  let  me  interrupt  the  amusement,"  he  responded, 


THELMA.  355 

with  a  sleepy  look  of  satisfaction  shooting  from  beneath  his 
eyelids.  "Go  on  spinning.  Lady  Errington.  I've  never  seen 
any  one  spin  before." 

At  that  moment  Morris  appeared  with  the  tea,  and  handed 
it  to  Sir  Francis.  Thelma  took  none,  and  as  the  servant  re- 
tired, she  quietly  resumed  her  occupation.  There  was  a  short 
silence,  only  broken  by  the  hum  of  the  wheel.  Sir  Francis 
sipped  his  tea  with  a  meditative  air,  and  studied  the  fair 
woman  before  him  as  critically  as  he  would  have  studied  a 
picture. 

"I  hope  I'm  not  in  your  way?"  he  asked  suddenly.  She 
looked  up  surprised. 

"Oh,  no — only  I  am  sorry  Philip  is  not  here  to  talk  to  you. 
It  would  be  so  much  pleasanter." 

"Would  it?"  he  murmured,  rather  dubiously,  and  smiling. 
"Well,  I  shall  be  quite  contented  if  you  will  talk  to  me.  Lady 
Errington." 

"Ah,  but  I  am  not  at  all  clever  in  conversation,"  responded 
Thelma,  quite  seriously.  "I  am  sure  you,  as  well  as  many 
others,  must  have  noticed  that.  I  never  do  seem  to  say  exactly 
the  right  thing  to  please  everybody.  Is  it  not  very  unfortu- 
nate?" 

He  laughed  a  little.  "I  have  yet  to  learn  in  what  way  you 
do  not  please  everybody,"  he  said,  dropping  his  voice  to  a  low, 
caressing  cadence.  "Who  that  sees  you  does  not  admire — 
and — and  love  you?" 

She  met  his  languorous  gaze  without  embarrassment,  while 
the  childlike  openness  of  her  regard  confused  and  slightly 
shamed  him. 

"Admire  me?  Oh,  yes!"  she  said  somewhat  plaintively. 
'It  is  that  of  which  I  am  so  weary!  Because  God  has  made 
one  pleasant  in  form  and  face — to  be  stared  at  and  whispered 
about,  and  have  all  one's  dresses  copied! — all  that  is  so  small 
and  common  and  mean,  and  does  vex  me  so  much!" 

"It  is  the  penalty  you  pay  for  being  beautiful,"  said  Sir 
Francis,  slowly,  wondering  within  himself  at  the  extraordi- 
nary incongruity  of  a  feminine  creature  who  was  actually  tired 
of  admiration. 

She  made  no  reply — the  wheel  went  round  faster  than  be- 
fore. Presently  Lennox  set  aside  his  emptied  cup,  and  draw- 
ing his  chair  a  little  closer  to  hers,  asked: 

"When  does  Errington  return?" 


356  THELMA. 

"I  can  not  tell  you,"  she  answered.  "He  said  that  he  might 
be  late.    Mr.  Neville  was  with  him." 

There  was  another  silence.  "Lady  Errington,"  said  Sir 
Francis,  abruptly,  "pray  excuse  me — I  speak  as  a  friend,  and 
in  your  interests.    How  long  is  this  to  last?" 

The  wheel  stopped.  She  raised  her  eyes — they  were  grave 
and  steady. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  returned,  quietly.  "What 
is  it  that  you  mean?" 

He  hesitated — then  went  on,  with  lowered  eyelids  and  a  half 
smile. 

"I  mean — what  all  our  set's  talking  about — Errington's 
queer  fancy  for  that  actress  at  the  Brilliant." 

Thelma  gazed  at  him  fixedly.  "It  is  a  mistake,"  she  said, 
resolutely,  "altogether  a  mistake.  And  as  you  are  his  friend. 
Sir  Francis,  you  will  please  contradict  this  report — which  is 
wrong,  and  may  do  Philip  harm.  It  has  no  truth  in  it  at 
all—" 

"No  truth!"  exclaimed  Lennox.  "It's  true  as  Gospel!  Lady 
Errington,  I'm  sorry  for  it — but  your  husband  is  deceiving 
you  most  shamefully!" 

"How  dare  you  say  such  a  thing!"  she  cried,  springing  up- 
right and  facing  him — then  she  stopped  and  grew  very  pale — 
but  she  kept  her  eyes  upon  him.  How  bright  they  were! 
What  a  chilling  pride  glittered  in  their  sea-blue  depths! 

"You  are  in  error,"  she  said,  coldly.  "If  it  is  wrong  to  visit 
this  theater  you  speak  of,  why  are  you  so  often  seen  there — ^and 
why  is  not  some  harm  said  of  you?  It  is  not  your  place  to 
speak  against  my  husband.  It  is  shameful  and  treacherous! 
You  do  forget  yourself  most  wickedly." 

And  she  moved  to  leave  the  room.  But  Sir  Francis  inter- 
posed. 

"Lady  Errington,"  he  said,  very  gently,  "don't  be  hard  upon 
me — pray  forgive  me!  Of  course  I've  no  business  to  speak — 
but  how  can  I  help  it?  When  I  hear  every  one  at  the  clubs 
discussing  you,  and  pitying  you,  it's  impossible  to  listen  quite 
unmoved!  I'm  the  least  among  your  friends,  I  know;  but  I 
can't  bear  this  sort  of  thing  to  go  on;  the  whole  affair  will  be 
dished  up  in  the  society  papers  next!" 

And  he  paced  the  room  impatiently — a  very  well-feigned 
expression  of  friendly  concern  and  sympathy  on  his  features. 
Thelma    stood    motionless,    a    little    bewildered — her    head 


THELMA.  357 

throbbed  achingly,  and  there  was  a  sick  sensation  of  numbness 
creeping  about  her. 

"I  tell  you  it  is  all  wrong!"  she  repeated,  with  an  effort.  "I 
do  not  understand  why  these  people  at  the  clubs  should  talk 
of  me  or  pity  me.  I  do  not  need  any  pity!  My  husband  is  all 
goodness  and  truth" — she  stopped  and  gathered  courage  as 
she  went  on.  "Yes!  he  is  better,  braver,  nobler  than  all  other 
men  in  the  world,  it  seems  to  me!  He  gives  me  all  the  joy  of 
my  life — each  day  and  night  I  thank  God  for  the  blessing  of 
his  love!" 

She  paused  again.  Sir  Francis  turned  and  looked  at  her 
steadily.  A  sudden  thought  seemed  to  strike  her,  for  she  ad- 
vanced eagerly,  a  sweet  color  flushing  the  pallor  of  her  skin. 

"You  can  do  so  much  for  me  if  you  will!"  she  said,  laying 
her  hand  on  his  arm.  "You  can  tell  all  these  people  who  talk 
so  foolishly  that  they  are  wrong — tell  them  how  happy  I  am! 
And  that  my  Philip  has  never  deceived  me  in  any  matter, 
great  or  small!" 

"Never?"  he  asked  with  a  slight  sneer.    "You  are  sure?" 

"Sure!"  she  answered,  bravely.  "He  would  keep  nothing 
from  me  that  it  was  necessary  or  good  for  me  to  know.  And 
I — oh!  I  might  pass  all  my  life  in  striving  to  please  him,  and 
yet  I  should  never,  never  be  worthy  of  all  his  tenderness  and 
goodness!  And  that  he  goes  many  times  to  a  theater  without 
me — what  is  it?  A  mere  nothing — a  trifle  to  laugh  at!  It  is 
not  needful  to  tell  me  of  such  a  small  circumstance!" 

As  she  spoke  she  smiled — her  form  seemed  to  dilate  with  a 
sort  of  inner  confidence  and  rapture. 

Sir  Francis  stared  at  her  half  shamed — half  savage.  The 
beautiful,  appealing  face,  bright  with  simple  trust,  roused 
him  to  no  sort  of  manly  respect  or  forbearance — the  very 
touch  of  the  blossom-white  hand  she  had  laid  so  innocently  on 
his  arm  stung  his  passion  as  with  a  lash.  As  he  had  said,  he 
was  fond  of  hunting — he  had  chased  the  unconscious  deer  all 
through  the  summer,  and  now  that  it  had  turned  to  bay  with 
such  pitiful  mildness  and  sweet  pleading,  why  not  draw  the 
knife  across  its  slim  throat  without  mercy? 

"Really,  Lady  Errington!"  he  said  at  last  sarcastically. 
"Your  wifely  enthusiasm  and  confidence  are  indeed  charming! 
But,  unfortunately,  the  proofs  are  all  against  you.  Truth  is 
truth,  however  much  you  may  wish  to  blind  your  eyes  to  its 
manifestations.     I  sincerely  wish  Sir  Philip  were  present  to 


358  THELMA. 

hear  your  eloquent  praises  of  him  instead  of  being  where  he 
most  undoubtedly  is — in  the  arms  of  Violet  Vere!" 

As  he  said  these  words  she  started  away  from  him  and  put 
her  hands  to  her  ears  as  though  to  shut  out  some  discordant 
sound.  Her  eyes  glowed  feverishly,  a  cold  shiver  shook  her 
from  head  to  foot. 

"That  is  false — false!"  she  muttered  in  a  low,  choked  voice. 
"How  can  you — how  dare  you?" 

She  ceased,  and  with  a  swaying,  bewildered  movement,  as 
though  she  were  blind,  she  fell  senseless  at  his  feet. 

In  one  second  he  was  kneeling  beside  her.  He  raised  her 
head  on  his  arm — he  gazed  eagerly  on  her  fair,  still  features. 
A  dark  contraction  of  his  brows  showed  that  his  thoughts  were 
not  altogether  righteous  ones.  Suddenly  he  laid  her  down 
again  gently,  and,  springing  to  the  door,  locked  it.  Eeturn- 
ing,  he  once  more  lifted  her  in  a  half-reclining  position,  and 
encircling  her  with  his  arms,  drew  her  close  to  his  breast  and 
kissed  her.  He  was  in  no  hurry  for  her  to  recover.  She 
looked  very  beautiful — she  was  helpless — she  was  in  his  power. 
The  silvery  ting-ting  of  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  striking 
eleven  startled  him  a  little.  He  listened  painfully — he  thought 
he  heard  some  one  trying  the  handle  of  the  door  he  had  locked. 
Again — again  he  kissed  those  pale,  unconscious  lips!  Pres- 
ently, a  slight  shiver  ran  through  her  frame;  she  sighed,  and 
a  little  moan  escaped  her.  Gradually,  as  warmth  and  sensa- 
tion returned  to  her,  she  felt  the  pressure  of  his  embrace,  and 
murmured: 

"Philip!  Darling — you  have  come  back  earlier — I 
thought—" 

Here  she  opened  her  eyes  and  met  those  of  Sir  Francis,  who 
was  eagerly  bending  over  her.  She  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
alarm,  and  strove  to  rise.    He  held  her  still  more  closely. 

"Thelma — dear,  dearest  Thelma!  Let  me  comfort  you — ^let 
me  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you!" 

And  before  she  could  divine  his  intent,  he  pressed  his  lips 
passionately  on  her  pale  cheek.  With  a  cry  she  tore  herself 
violently  from  his  arms  and  sprung  to  her  feet,  trembling  in 
every  limb. 

"What — what  is  this?"  she  exclaimed,  wrathfully.  "Are 
you  mad?" 

And  still  weak  and  confused  from  her  recent  attack  of 


THELMA.  359 

faintness,  she  pushed  back  her  hair  from  her  brows  and  re- 
garded him  with  a  sort  of  puzzled  horror. 

He  flushed  deeply,  and  set  his  lips  hard. 

"I  dare  say  I  am/'  he  answered  with  a  bitter  laugh;  "in  fact, 
I  know  I  am.  You  see,  I've  betrayed  my  miserable  secret. 
Will  you  forgive  me,  Lady  Errington — Thelma?"  He  drew 
nearer  to  her,  and  his  eyes  darkened  with  restrained  passion. 
"Matchless  beauty! — adorable  woman,  as  you  are! — will  you 
not  pardon  my  crime,  if  crime  it  be — the  crime  of  loving  you? 
For  I  do  love  you! — Heaven  only  knows  how  utterly  and 
desperately!" 

She  stood  mute,  white,  almost  rigid,  with  that  strange  look 
of  horror  frozen,  as  it  were,  upon  her  features.  Emboldened 
by  her  silence,  he  approached  and  caught  her  hand.  She 
wrenched  it  from  his  grasp  and  motioned  him  from  her  with 
a  gesture  of  such  royal  contempt  that  he  quailed  before  her. 
All  suddenly  the  flood-gates  of  her  speech  were  loosened — the 
rising  tide  of  burning  indignation  that  in  its  very  force  had 
held  her  dumb  and  motionless,  now  broke  forth  unrestrain- 
edly. 

"Oh,  God!"  she  cried,  impetuously,  a  magnificent  glory  of 
disdain  flashing  in  her  jewel-like  eyes,  "what  thing  is  this  that 
calls  itself  a  man? — this  thief  of  honor — this  pretended 
friend?  What  have  I  done,  sir,  that  you  should  put  such  deep 
disgrace  as  your  so-called  love  upon  me? — what  have  I  seemed, 
that  you  thus  dare  to  outrage  me  by  the  pollution  of  your 
touch?  I — the  wife  of  the  noblest  gentleman  in  the  land! 
Ah!"  and  she  drew  a  long  breath — "and  it  is  you  who  speak 
against  my  husband — you!"  She  smiled  scornfully,  then  with 
more  calmness  continued:  "You  will  leave  my  house,  sir,  at 
once,  and  never  presume  to  enter  it  again!" 

And  she  stepped  toward  the  bell.  He  looked  at  her  with 
an  evil  leer. 

"Stop  a  moment!"  he  said,  coolly.  "Just  one  moment  be- 
fore you  ring.  Pray  consider!  The  servant  can  not  possibly 
enter,  as  the  door  is  locked." 

"You  dared  to  lock  the  door!"  she  exclaimed,  a  sudden  fear 
chilling  her  heart  as  she  remembered  similar  maneuvers  on 
the  part  of  the  Eeverend  Mr.  Dyceworthy — then  another 
thought  crossed  her  mind,  and  she  began  to  retreat  toward  a 
large  painted  panel  of  Venus  disporting  among  Cupids  and 
dolphins  in  the  sea.     Sir  Francis  sprung  to  her  side,  and 


360  THELMA. 

caught  her  arm  in  an  iron  grip — his  face  was  aflame  with 
baffled  spite  and  vindictiveness. 

"Yes,  I  dared!"  he  muttered  with  triumphant  malice.  "And 
I  dare  do  more  than  that!  You  lay  unconscious  in  my  arms 
— you  beautiful,  bewitching  Thelma,  and  I  kissed  you — ay! 
fifty  times!  You  can  never  undo  those  kisses!  You  can  never 
forget  that  my  lips,  as  well  as  your  husband's,  have  rested  on 
yours.  I  have  had  that  much  joy  that  shall  never  be  taken 
away  from  me!  And  if  I  choose,  even  now" — and  he  gripped 
her  more  closely — "yes,  even  now  I  will  kiss  you,  in  spite  of 
you! — who  is  to  prevent  me?  I  will  force  you  to  love  me, 
Thelma—" 

Driven  to  bay,  she  struck  him  with  all  her  force  in  the  face, 
across  the  eyes. 

"Traitor! — liar! — coward!"  she  gasped,  breathlessly.  "Let 
me  go!" 

Smarting  with  the  pain  of  the  blow,  he  unconsciously  loos- 
ened his  grasp.  She  rushed  to  the  Venus  panel,  and  to  his 
utter  discomfiture  and  amazement  saw  it  open  and  close  be- 
hind her.  She  disappeared  suddenly  and  noiselessly  as  if  by 
magic.  With  a  fierce  exclamation,  he  threw  his  whole  weight 
against  that  secret  sliding  door — it  resisted  all  his  efforts.  He 
searched  for  the  spring  by  which  it  must  have  opened — the 
whole  panel  was  perfectly  smooth  and  apparently  solid,  and 
the  painted  Venus  reclining  on  her  dolphin's  back  seemed  as 
though  she  smiled  mockingly  at  his  rage  and  disappointment. 

While  he  was  examining  it,  he  heard  the  sudden,  sharp,  and 
continuous  ringing  of  an  electric  bell  somewhere  in  the  house, 
and  with  a  guilty  flush  on  his  face  he  sprung  to  the  drawing- 
room  door  and  unlocked  it.  He  was  just  in  time,  for  scarcely 
had  he  turned  the  key,  when  Morris  made  his  appearance. 
That  venerable  servitor  looked  round  the  room  in  evident 
surprise. 

"Did  her  ladyship  ring?"  he  inquired,  his  eyes  roving  every- 
where in  search  of  his  mistress.  Sir  Francis  collected  his 
wits,  and  forced  himself  to  seem  composed. 

"No,"  he  said,  coolly.  "I  rang."  He  adopted  this  false- 
hood as  a  means  of  exit.    "Call  a  hansom,  will  you?" 

And  he  sauntered  easily  into  the  hall,  and  got  on  his  hat 
and  great  coat.  Morris  was  rather  bewildered — but,  obedient 
to  the  command,  blew  the  summoning  cab-whistle,  which  was 
promptly  answered.    Sir  Francis  tossed  him  half  a  crown,  and 


THELMA.  361 

entered  the  vehicle,  which  clattered  away  with  him  in  the 
direction  of  Cromwell  Road.  Stopping  at  a  particular  house 
in  a  side  street  leading  from  thence,  he  bade  the  cabman  wait 
and,  ascending  the  steps,  busied  himself  for  some  moments  in 
scribbling  something  rapidly  in  pencil  on  a  leaf  of  his  note- 
book by  the  light  of  the  hanging  lamp  in  the  doorway.  He 
then  gave  a  loud  knock,  and  inquired  of  the  servant  who  an- 
swered it: 

"Is  Mr.  Snawley-Grubbs  in?" 

"Yes,  sir" — the  reply  came  rather  hesitatingly — "but  he's 
having  a  party  to-night." 

And,  in  fact,  the  scraping  of  violins  and  the  shuffle  of  danc- 
ing feet  were  distinctly  audible  overhead. 

"Oh,  well,  just  mention  my  name — Sir  Francis  Lennox. 
Say  I  will  not  detain  him  more  than  five  minutes." 

He  entered,  and  was  ushered  into  a  small  anteroom 
while  the  maid  went  to  deliver  her  message.  He  caught  sight 
of  his  own  reflection  in  a  round  mirror  over  the  mantel-piece, 
and  his  face  darkened  as  he  saw  a  dull  red  ridge  across  his 
forehead — the  mark  of  Thelma's  well-directed  blow — the  sign- 
manual  of  her  scorn.  A  few  minutes  passed,  and  then  there 
came  in  to  him  a  large  man  in  an  expansive  dress-suit — a  man 
with  a  puffy,  red,  Silenus-like  countenance — no  other  than  Mr. 
Snawley-Grubbs,  who  hailed  him  with  eftusive  cordiality. 

"My  dear  Sir  Francis!"  he  said  in  a  rich,  thick,  comfortable 
voice.  "This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure!  Won't  you  come 
upstairs?  My  girls  are  having  a  little  informal  dance — just 
among  themselves  and  their  own  young  friends — quite  simple 
— in  fact,  an  unpretentious  little  affair!"  And  he  rubbed  his 
fat  hands,  on  which  twinkled  two  or  three  large  diamond  rings. 
"But  we  shall  be  charmed  if  you  will  join  us!" 

"Thanks,  not  this  evening,"  returned  Sir  Francis.  "It's 
rather  too  late.  I  should  not  have  intruded  upon  you  at  this 
hour — but  I  thought  you  might  possibly  like  this  paragraph 
for  the  'Snake.' " 

And  he  held  out  with  a  careless  air  the  paper  on  which  he 
had  scribbled  but  a  few  minutes  previously.  Mr.  Snawley- 
Grubbs  smiled,  and  fixed  a  pair  of  elegant  gold-rimmed  eye- 
glasses on  his  inflamed  crimson  nose. 

"I  must  tell  you,  though,"  he  observed,  before  reading,  "that 
it  is  too  late  for  this  week,  at  any  rate.  We've  gone  to  press 
already." 


362  THELMA. 

"Never  mind!"  returned  Sir  Francis,  indifferently.  "Next 
week  will  do  as  well." 

And  he  furtively  watched  Mr.  Snawley-Gruhbs  while  he 
perused  the  penciled  scrawl.  That  gentleman,  however,  as 
editor  and  proprietor  of  the  "Snake" — a  new,  but  highly  suc- 
cessful weekly  "society"  Journal — was  far  too  dignified  and 
self-important  to  allow  his  countenance  to  betray  his  feelings. 
He  merely  remarked,  as  he  folded  up  the  little  slip  very 
carefully : 

"Very  smart!    very  smart,  indeed!    Authentic,  of  course?" 

Sir  Francis  drew  himself  up  haughtily.  "You  doubt  my 
word?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no!"  declared  Mr.  Snawley-Grubbs  hastily,  ven- 
turing to  lay  a  soothing  hand  on  Sir  Francis's  shoulder. 
"Your  position,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing —  Naturally  you 
must  be  able  to  secure  correct  information.  You  can't  help  it! 
I  assure  you,  the  'Snake'  is  infinitely  obliged  to  you  for  a  great 
many  well-written  and  socially  exciting  paragraphs.  Only, 
you  see,  I  myself  should  never  have  thought  that  so  extreme 
a  follower  of  the  exploded  old  doctrine  of  noblesse  oblige  as  Sir 
Philip  Bruce-Errington  would  have  started  on  such  a  new  line 
of  action  at  all.  But,  of  course,  we  are  all  mortal!"  And  he 
shook  his  round,  thick  head  with  leering  sagacity.  "Well," 
he  continued,  after  a  pause,  "this  shall  go  in  without  fail  next 
week,  I  promise  you." 

"You  can  send  me  a  hundred  copies  of  the  issue,"  said  Sir 
Francis,  taking  up  his  hat  to  go.  "I  suppose  you're  not  afraid 
of  an  action  for  libel?" 

Mr.  Snawley-Grubbs  laughed — nay,  he  roared — ^the  idea 
seemed  so  exquisitely  suited  to  his  sense  of  humor. 

"Afraid?  My  dear  fellow,  there's  nothing  I  should  like 
better!  It  would  establish  the  'Snake,'  and  make  my  fortune! 
I  would  even  go  to  prison  with  pleasure.  Prison,  for  a  first- 
class  misdemeanant,  as  I  should  most  probably  be  termed,  is 
perfectly  endurable."  He  laughed  again,  and  escorted  Sir 
Francis  to  the  street-door,  where  he  shook  hands  heartily. 
"You  are  sure  you  won't  come  up  stairs  and  join  us?  No? 
Ah,  I  see  you  have  a  cab  waiting.    Good-night,  good-night!" 

And  the  Snawley-Grubbs  door  being  closed  upon  him,  Sir 
Francis  re-entered  his  cab,  and  was  driven  straight  to  his 
bachelor  lodgings  in  Piccadilly.  He  was  in  a  better  humor 
with  himself  now — though  he  was  still  angrily  conscious  of  a 


THELMA.  363 

smart  throbbing  across  the  eyes,  where  Thelma's  ringed  hand 
had  struck  him.  He  found  a  brief  note  from  Lady  Winsleigh 
awaiting  him.    It  ran  as  follows: 

"You're  playing  a  losing  game  this  time — she  will  believe 
nothing  without  proofs — and  even  then  it  will  be  difficult.  You 
had  better  drop  the  pursuit,  I  fancy — for  once  a  woman's  reputa- 
tion will  escape  you!" 

He  smiled  bitterly  as  he  read  these  last  words. 

"Not  while  a  society  paper  exists!"  he  said  to  himself.  "As 
long  as  there  are  editors  who  are  willing  to  accept  the  word  of 
a  responsible  man  of  position  for  any  report,  the  chastest 
Diana  that  ever  lived  shall  not  escape  calumny!  She  wants 
proofs,  does  she?    She  shall  have  them — by  Jove!   she  shall!" 

And  instead  of  going  to  bed,  he  went  oil  to  a  bijou  villa  in 
St.  John's  Wood — an  elegantly  appointed  little  place,  which 
he  rented  and  maintained — and  where  the  popular  personage 
known  as  Violet  Vere  basked  in  the  very  lap  of  luxury. 

Meanwhile  Thelma  paced  up  and  down  her  own  boudoir, 
into  which  she  had  escaped  through  the  sliding  panel  which 
had  baffled  her  admirer.  Her  whole  frame  trembled  as  she 
thought  of  the  indignity  to  which  she  had  been  subjected  dur- 
ing her  brief  unconsciousness — her  face  burned  with  bitter 
shame — she  felt  as  if  she  were  somehow  poisonously  infected 
by  those  hateful  kisses  of  Lennox — all  her  womanly  and  wifely 
instincts  were  outraged.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  tell  her  hus- 
band everything  the  instant  he  returned.  It  was  she  who  had 
rung  the  bell  which  had  startled  Sir  Francis,  and  she  was  sur- 
prised that  her  summons  was  not  answered.  She  rang  again, 
and  Britta  appeared. 

"I  wanted  Morris,"  said  Thelma,  quickly. 

"He  thought  it  was  the  drawing-room  bell,"  responded 
Britta,  meekly,  for  her  "Froken"  looked  very  angry.  "I  saw 
him  in  the  hall  just  now,  letting  out  Sir  Francis  Lennox." 

"Has  he  gone?"  demanded  Thelma,  eagerly. 

Britta's  wonder  increased,    "Yes,  Froken!" 

Thelma  caught  her  arm.  "Tell  Morris  never,  never  to  let 
him  inside  the  house  again — never!"  and  her  blue  eyes  flashed 
wrathfully.  "He  is  a  wicked  man,  Britta!  You  do  not  know 
how  wicked  he  is!" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do!"  and  Britta  regarded  her  mistress  stead- 
fastly. "I  know  quite  well!  But,  then,  I  must  not  speak!  If 
I  dared,  I  could  tell  you  some  strange  things,  dear  Froken — 


364  THELMA. 

but  you  will  not  hear  me.  You  know  you  do  not  wish  me  to 
talk  about  your  grand  new  friends,  Froken,  but — "  she  paused 
timidly. 

"Oh,  Britta,  dear!"  said  Thelma,  affectionately  taking  her 
hand.  "You  know  they  are  not  so  much  my  friends  as  the 
friends  of  Sir  Philip — and  for  this  reason  I  must  never  listen 
to  anything  against  them.  Do  you  not  see?  Of  course  their 
ways  seem  strange  to  us — but,  then,  life  in  London  is  so  differ- 
ent to  life  in  Norway — and  we  can  not  all  at  once  under- 
stand— "  she  broke  off,  sighing  a  little.  Then  she  resumed: 
"Now  you  will  give  Morris  my  message,  Britta — and  then 
come  to  me  in  my  bedroom — I  am  tired,  and  Philip  said  I  was 
not  to  wait  up  for  him." 

Britta  departed,  and  Thelma  went  rather  slowly  upstairs. 
It  was  now  nearly  midnight,  and  she  felt  languid  and  weary. 
Her  reflections  began  to  take  a  new  turn.  Suppose  she  told 
her  husband  all  that  had  occurred,  he  would  most  certainly  go 
to  Sir  Francis  and  punish  him  in  some  way — there  might  then 
be  a  quarrel  in  which  Philip  himself  might  suffer — and  all 
sorts  of  evil  consequences  would  perhaps  result  from  her  want 
of  reticence.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  she  said  nothing,  and 
simply  refused  to  receive  Lennox,  would  not  her  husband  think 
such  conduct  on  her  part  strange?  She  puzzled  over  these 
questions  till  her  head  ached,  and  finally  resolved  to  keep  her 
own  counsel  for  the  present.  After  what  had  happened.  Sir 
Francis  would  most  probably  not  intrude  himself  again  into 
her  presence.  "I  will  ask  Mrs.  Lorimer  what  is  best  to  do," 
she  thought.    "She  is  old  and  wise,  and  she  will  know." 

That  night  as  she  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow,  and  Britta 
threw  the  warm  eidredon  over  her,  she  shivered  a  Uttle  and 
asked: 

"Is  it  not  very  cold,  Britta?" 

"Very!"  responded  her  little  maid.  "And  it  is  beginning 
to  snow." 

Thelma  looked  wistful.  "It  is  all  snow  and  darkness  now 
at  the  Alten  Fjord,"  she  said. 

Britta  smiled.  "Yes,  indeed,  Froken!  We  are  better  off 
here  than  there." 

"Perhaps!"  replied  Thelma,  a  little  musingly,  and  then  she 
settled  herself  as  though  to  sleep. 

Britta  kissed  her  hand  and  retired  noiselessly.  When  she 
had  gone,  Thelma  opened  her  eyes  and  lay  broad  awake  look- 


THELMA.  365 

ing  at  the  flicker  of  rosy  light  flung  on  the  ceihng  from  the 
little  suspended  lamp  in  her  oratory.  All  snow  and  darkness 
at  the  Alten  Fjord!  How  strange  the  picture  seemed!  She 
thought  of  her  mother's  sepulcher — how  cold  and  dreary  it 
must  be.  She  could  see  in  fancy  the  long  pendent  icicles 
fringing  the  entrance  to  the  sea-king's  tomb — the  spot  where 
she  and  Philip  had  first  met.  She  could  almost  hear  the  slow, 
sullen  plash  of  the  black  fjord  against  the  shore.  Her  maiden 
life  in  Norway — her  school-days  at  Aries — these  were  now 
like  dreams — dreams  that  had  passed  away  long,  long  ago. 
The  whole  tenor  of  her  existence  had  changed — she  was  a  wife 
— she  was  soon  to  be  a  mother — and  with  this  near  future  of 
new  and  sacred  joy  before  her,  why  did  she  to-night  so  per- 
sistently look  backward  to  the  past? 

As  she  lay  quiet,  watching  the  glimmering  light  upon  the 
wall,  it  seemed  as  though  her  room  were  suddenly  filled  with 
shadowy  forms — she  saw  her  mother's  sweet,  sad,  suffering 
face — ^then  her  father's  sturdy  figure  and  fine,  frank  features 
— then  came  the  flitting  shape  of  the  hapless  Sigurd,  whose 
plaintive  voice  she  almost  imagined  she  could  hear — and  feel- 
ing that  she  was  growing  foolishly  nervous,  she  closed  her 
eyes  and  tried  to  sleep.  In  vain — her  mind  began  to  work 
on  a  far  more  unpleasing  train  of  thought.  Why  did  not 
PhiKp  return?  Where  was  he?  As  though  some  mocking 
devil  had  answered  her,  the  words,  "In  the  arms  of  Violet 
Vere!"  as  uttered  by  Sir  Francis  Lennox,  recurred  to  her. 
Overcome  by  her  restlessness,  she  started  up.  She  determined 
to  get  out  of  bed,  and  put  on  her  dressing-gown  and  read — 
when  her  quick  ears  caught  the  sound  of  steps  coming  up  the 
staircase.  She  recognized  her  husband's  firm  tread,  and  under- 
stood that  he  was  followed  by  Neville,  whose  sleeping  apart- 
ment was  on  the  floor  above.  She  listened  attentively — they 
were  talking  together  in  low  tones  on  the  landing  outside  her 
door. 

"I  think  it  would  be  much  better  to  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it,"  said  Sir  Philip.    "She  will  have  to  know  some  day." 

"Your  wife?  For  God's  sake,  don't  tell  her!"  Neville's 
voice  replied.     "Such  a  disgraceful — " 

Here  his  words  sunk  to  a  whisper,  and  Thelma  could  not 
distinguish  them.  Another  minute,  and  her  husband  entered 
with  soft  precaution,  fearing  to  awake  her.    She  stretched  out 


366  THELMA. 

her  arms  to  welcome  him,  and  he  hastened  to  her  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  tenderness  and  pleasure. 

"My  darling!     Not  asleep  yet?" 

She  smiled — hut  there  was  something  very  piteous  in  her 
smile  had  the  dim  light  enabled  him  to  perceive  it. 

"No,  not  yet,  Philip!  And  yet  I  think  I  have  been  dream- 
ing of — the  Alten  Fjord.'* 

"Ah!  it  must  be  cold  there  now,"  he  answered,  lightly. 
"It's  cold  enough  here,  in  all  conscience.  To-night  there  is  a 
bitter  east  wind,  and  snow  is  falling." 

She  heard  this  account  of  the  weather  with  almost  morbid 
interest.  Her  thoughts  instantly  betook  themselves  again  to 
Norway,  and  dwelt  there.  To  the  last — before  her  aching 
eyes  closed  in  the  slumber  she  so  sorely  needed — she  seemed 
to  be  carried  away  in  fancy  to  a  weird  stretch  of  gloom- 
enveloped  landscape  where  she  stood  entirely  alone,  vaguely 
wondering  at  the  dreary  scene.  "How  strange  it  seems!"  she 
murmured  almost  aloud.  "All  snow  and  darkness  at  the 
Alten  Fjord!" 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

Le  temps  oil  nous  nous  sommes  aimes  n'a  gufere  dur6,  jeune 
fille;    il  a  pass6  comme  un  coup  de  vent! — Old  Breton  Ballad. 

The  next  morning  dawned  cold  and  dismal,  A  dense  yel- 
low fog  hung  over  the  metropolis  like  a  pall — the  street-lamps 
were  lighted,  but  their  flare  scarcely  illumined  the  thorough- 
fares, and  the  chill  of  the  snow-burdened  air  penetrated  into 
the  warmest  rooms,  and  made  itself  felt  even  by  the  side  of 
the  brightest  fire.  Sir  Philip  woke  with  an  uncomfortable 
sense  of  headache  and  depression,  and  grumbled — as  surely 
every  Englishman  has  a  right  to  grumble,  at  the  uncompro- 
mising wretchedness  of  his  country's  winter  climate.  His 
humor  was  not  improved  when  a  telegram  arrived  before 
breakfast  summoning  him  in  haste  to  a  dull  town  in  one  of 
the  Midland  counties  on  pressing  business  connected  with  his 
candidature  for  Parliament. 

"What  a  bore!"  he  exclaimed,  showing  the  missive  to  his 
wife.    "I  must  go — and  I  shan't  be  able  to  get  back  to-night. 


THELMA.  367 

You'll  be  all  alone,  Thelma.  I  wish  you'd  go  to  the  Wins- 
leighs!" 

"Why?"  said  Thelma,  quietly.  "I  shall  much  prefer  to  be 
here.    I  do  not  mind,  Philip.    I  am  accustomed  to  be  alone." 

Something  in  her  tone  struck  him  as  particularly  sad,  and 
he  looked  at  her  intently. 

"Now,  my  darling,"  he  said  suddenly,  "if  this  parliamentary 
bother  is  making  you  feel  worried  or  vexed  in  any  way,  I'll 
throw  it  all  up — by  Jove,  I  will!"  And  he  drew  her  into  his 
warm  embrace.  "After  all,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh,  "what 
does  it  matter!    The  country  can  get  on  without  me!" 

Thelma  smiled  a  little. 

"You  must  not  talk  so  foolishly,  Philip,"  she  said,  tenderly. 
"It  is  wrong  to  begin  a  thing  of  importance  and  not  go 
through  witli  it.  And  I  am  not  worried  or  vexed  at  all.  What 
would  people  say  of  me  if  I,  your  wife,  were,  for  my  own 
selfish  comfort  and  pleasure  of  having  you  always  with  me,  to 
prevent  you  from  taking  a  good  place  among  the  men  of  your 
nation?  Indeed,  I  should  deserve  much  blame!  And  so, 
though  it  is  a  gloomy  day  for  you,  poor  boy,  you  must  go  to 
this  place  where  you  are  wanted,  and  I  shall  think  of  you  all 
the  time  you  are  gone,  and  shall  be  so  happy  to  welcome  you 
home  to-morrow!" 

And  she  kissed  and  clung  to  him  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
All  that  day  Philip  was  haunted  by  the  remembrance  of  the 
lingering  tenderness  of  her  farewell  embrace.  By  ten  o'clock 
he  was  gone,  taking  Neville  with  him;  and  after  her  house- 
hold duties  were  over,  Thelma  prepared  herself  to  go  and 
lunch  with  old  Mrs.  Lorimer,  and  see  what  she  would  advise 
concerning  the  affair  of  Sir  Francis  Lennox.  But,  at  the  same 
time,  she  resolved  that  nothing  should  make  her  speak  of  the 
reports  that  were  afloat  about  her  husband  and  Violet  Vere. 

"I  know  it  is  all  false,"  she  said  to  herself  over  and  over 
again.  "And  the  people  here  are  as  silly  as  the  peasants  in 
Bosekop,  ready  to  believe  any  untruth  so  long  as  it  gives  them 
something  to  talk  about.  But  they  may  chatter  as  they  please 
— I  shall  not  say  one  word,  not  even  to  Philip — for  it  would 
seem  as  if  I  mistrusted  him." 

Thus  she  put  away  all  the  morbid  fancies  that  threatened 
to  oppress  her,  and  became  almost  cheerful. 

And  while  she  made  her  simple  plans  for  pleasantly  passing 
the  long,  dull  day  of  her  husband's  enforced  absence,  her 


368  THELMA. 

friend,  Lady  Winsleigh,  was  making  arrangements  of  a  very 
different  nature.  Her  ladyship  had  received  a  telegram  from 
Sir  Francis  Lennox  that  morning.  The  pink  missive  had  ap- 
parently put  her  in  an  excellent  humor,  though  after  reading 
it,  she  crumpled  it  up  and  threw  it  in  the  waste-paper  basket, 
from  which  receptacle,  Louise  Renaud,  her  astute  attendant, 
half  an  hour  later  extracted  it,  secreting  it  in  her  own  pocket 
for  private  perusal  at  leisure.  She  ordered  her  brougham, 
saying  she  was  going  out  on  business — and  before  departing, 
she  took  from  her  dressing-case  certain  bank-notes  and 
crammed  them  hastily  into  her  purse — a  purse  which,  in  all 
good  faith,  she  handed  to  her  maid  to  put  in  her  sealskin 
muff-bag.  Of  course,  Louise  managed  to  make  herself  aware 
of  its  contents — but  when  her  ladyship  at  last  entered  her  car- 
riage her  unexpected  order,  "To  the  Brilliant  Theater, 
Strand,"  was  sufficient  to  startle  Briggs,  and  cause  him  to  ex- 
change surprise  signals  with  "mamzelle,"  who  merely  smiled 
a  prim,  incomprehensible  smile. 

"Where  did  your  la'ship  say?"  asked  Briggs,  dubiously. 

"Are  you  getting  deaf,  Briggs?"  responded  his  mistress, 
pleasantly.  "To  the  Brilliant  Theater."  She  raised  her 
voice,  and  spoke  with  distinct  emphasis.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking her.  Briggs  touched  his  hat — in  the  same  instant  he 
v/inked  at  Louise,  and  then  the  carriage  rolled  away. 

At  night  the  Brilliant  Theater  is  a  pretty  little  place — com- 
fortable, cozy,  bright,  and  deserving  of  its  name;  in  broad  day, 
it  is  none  of  these  things.  A  squalid  dreariness  seems  to  have 
settled  upon  it — it  has  a  peculiar  atmosphere  of  its  own — an 
atmosphere  dark,  heavy,  and  strangely  flavored  with  odors  of 
escaping  gas  and  crushed  orange-peel.  Behind  the  scenes 
these  odors  mingled  with  a  chronic,  all-pervading  smell  of 
beer — ^beer,  which  the  stranger's  sensitive  nose  detects  direct- 
ly, in  spite  of  the  choking  clouds  of  dust  which  arise  from 
the  boards  at  the  smallest  movement  of  any  part  of  the 
painted  scenery.  The  Brilliant  had  gone  through  much  ill- 
fortune — its  proprietors  never  realized  any  financial  profit  till 
they  secured  Violet  Vere.  With  her  came  prosperity.  Her 
utter  absence  of  all  reserve — the  frankness  with  wMch  she 
threw  modesty  to  the  winds — the  vigor  with  which  she  danced 
a  regular  "breakdown" — roaring  a  comic  song  of  the  lowest 
type  by  way  of  accompaniment — the  energetic  manner  in 
which,  metaphorically  speaking,  she  kicked  at  the  public  with 


THELMA.  369 

her  shapely  legs — all  this  overflow  of  genius  on  her  part  drew 
crowds  to  the  Brilliant  nightly,  and  the  grateful  and  happy 
managers  paid  her  a  handsome  salary,  humored  all  her 
caprices,  and  stinted  and  snubbed  for  her  sake  all  the  rest  of 
the  company.  She  was  immensely  popular — the  "golden 
youth"  of  London  raved  about  her  dyed  hair,  painted  eyes, 
and  carmined  lips — even  her  voice,  as  coarse  as  that  of  a  dust- 
man, was  applauded  to  the  echo,  and  her  dancing  excited  the 
wildest  enthusiasm.  Dukes  sent  her  presents  of  diamond 
ornaments — gifts  of  value  which  they  would  have  possibly  re- 
fused to  their  own  wives  and  daughters — royal  bignesses 
thought  it  no  shame  to  be  seen  lounging  near  her  stage  dress- 
ing-room door — in  short,  she  was  in  the  zenith  of  her  career, 
and,  being  thoroughly  unprincipled,  audaciously  insolent,  and 
wholly  without  a  conscience — she  enjoyed  herself  immensely. 

At  the  very  time  when  Lady  Winsleigh's  carriage  was 
nearing  the  Strand,  the  grand  morning  rehearsal  of  a  new 
burlesque  was  "on"  at  the  Brilliant,  and  Violet's  harsh  tones, 
raised  to  a  sort  of  rough  masculine  roar,  were  heard  all  over 
the  theater,  as  she  issued  her  commands  or  made  complaints 
according  to  her  changeful  humors.  She  sat  in  an  elevated 
position  above  the  stage  on  a  jutting  beam  of  wood  painted  to 
resemble  the  gnarled  branch  of  a  tree,  swinging  her  legs  to 
and  fro  and  clicking  the  heels  of  her  shoes  together  in  time  to 
the  mild  scraping  of  a  violin,  the  player  whereof  was  "trying 
over"  the  first  few  bars  of  the  new  "jig"  in  which  she  was  ere 
long  to  distinguish  herself.  She  was  a  handsome  woman, 
with  a  fine,  fair  skin,  and  large,  full,  dark  eyes — she  had  a 
wide  mouth,  which,  nearly  always  on  the  grin,  displayed  to 
the  full  her  strong  white  teeth — her  figure  was  inclined  to  ex- 
cessive embonpoint,  but  this  rather  endeared  her  to  her  admir- 
ers than  otherwise — many  of  these  gentlemen  being  prone 
to  describe  her  fleshly  charms  by  the  epithet  "Prime!"  as 
though  she  were  a  fatting  pig  or  other  animal  getting  ready 
for  killing. 

"Tommy!  Tommy!"  she  screeched,  presently,  "are  you 
going  to  sleep?  Do  you  expect  me  to  dance  to  a  dirge,  you 
lazy  devil!" 

Tommy,  the  player  of  the  violin,  paused  in  his  efforts  and 
looked  up  drearily.  He  was  an  old  man,  with  a  lean,  long 
body  and  pinched  features — his  lips  had  a  curious  way,  too,  of 
trembling  when  he  spoke,  as  if  he  were  ready  to  cry. 

24 


370  THELMA. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I  don't  know  it  yet.  I 
must  practice  it  a  bit  at  home.  My  sight's  not  so  good  as  it 
used  to  be — " 

"Such  a  pair  of  optics,  love,  you've  never,  never  seen^ 
One  my  mother  blacked  last  night,  the  t'other  it  is  green!" 

sung  Violet,  to  the  infinite  dehght  of  all  the  unwashed-look- 
ing supernumeraries  and  ballet-girls  who  were  scattered  about 
the  stage,  talking  and  laughing. 

"Shut  up.  Tommy!"  she  continued.  "You're  always  talk- 
ing about  your  eyesight.  I  warn  you  if  you  say  too  much 
about  it  you'll  lose  your  place.  We  don't  want  blind  fiddlers 
in  the  Brilliant.  Put  down  your  catgut  screamer,  and  fetch 
me  a  pint.     Ask  for  the  Vere's  own  tipple — they'll  twig!" 

Tommy  obeyed,  and  shuffled  off  on  his  errand.  As  he  de- 
parted a  little  man  with  a  very  red  face,  wearing  a  stove- 
pipe hat  very  much  on  one  side,  bounced  on  the  stage  as  if 
some  one  had  thrown  him  there  like  a  ball. 

"Now,  ladies,  ladies!"  he  shouted,  warningly.  "Attention! 
Once  again,  please!     The  last  figure  once  again!" 

The  straggling  groups  scrambled  hastily  into  something  like 
order,  and  the  httle  man  continued:  "One,  two,  three!  Ad- 
vance— retreat — left,  right!  Very  well,  indeed!  Arms  up  a 
little  more,  Miss  Jenkins — so!  toes  well  pointed — courtesy — 
retire!  One,  two,  three!  swift  slide  to  the  left  wing — for- 
ward! Round — take  hands — all  smile,  please!"  This  general 
smile  was  apparently  not  quite  satisfactory,  for  he  repeated, 
persuasively:  "All  smile,  please!  So!  Round  again — more 
quickly — now  break  the  circle  in  center — enter  Miss  Vere — " 
he  paused,  growing  still  redder  in  the  face,  and  demanded: 
"Where  is  Miss  Vere?" 

He  was  standing  just  beneath  the  painted  bough  of  the 
sham  tree,  and  in  a  second  his  hat  was  dexterously  kicked  off, 
and  two  heels  met  with  a  click  round  his  neck. 

"Here  I  am,  pickaninny!"  retorted  Miss  Vere,  holding  him 
fast  in  this  novel  embrace  amid  the  laughter  of  the  supers. 
"You're  getting  as  blind  as  Tommy!  Steady,  steady  now, 
donkey! — steady — whoa!"  And  in  a  trice  she  stood  upright, 
one  foot  planted  firmly  on  each  of  his  shoulders.  "No 
weight,  am  I,  darling?"  she  went  on,  jeeringly,  and  with  an 
inimitably  derisive  air  she  put  up  an  eyeglass  and  surveyed 


THELMA.  371 

the  top  of  his  head.  "You  want  a  wig,  my  dear — do  you,  in- 
deed! Come  with  me  to-morrow,  and  I'll  buy  you  one  to  suit 
your  complexion.     Your  wife  won't  know  you!" 

And  with  a  vigorous  jump  she  sprung  down  from  her 
position,  managing  to  give  him  a  smart  hit  on  the  nose  as  she 
did  so — and  leaping  to  the  center  of  the  stage,  she  posed  her- 
self to  commence  her  dance,  when  Tommy  came  creeping 
back  in  his  slow  and  dismal  fashion,  bearing  something  in  a 
pewter  pot. 

"That's  the  ticket!"  she  cried,  as  she  perceived  him.  "I'm 
as  dry  as  a  whole  desert!  Give  it  here!"  And  she  snatched 
the  mug  from  the  feeble  hand  of  her  messenger  and  began 
drinking  eagerly. 

The  little  red-faced  man  interposed.  "Now,  Miss  Vi,"  he 
said,  "is  that  brandy?" 

"Rather  so,"  returned  the  Vere,  with  a  knowing  wink, 
"and  a  good  many  things  besides.  It's  a  mixture.  The 
'Vere's  Own!'     Ha,  ha!     Might  be  the  name  of  a  regiment!" 

And  she  buried  her  mouth  and  nose  again  in  the  tankard. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  little  man  again.  "Why  not  wait  till 
after  the  dance?     It's  bad  for  you  before." 

"Oh,  is  it,  indeed!"  screamed  Violet,  raising  her  face,  which 
became  suddenly  and  violently  flushed.  "Oh,  good  Lord! 
Are  you  a  temperance  preacher?  Teach  your  granny!  Bad 
for  me?  Say  another  word,  and  I'll  box  your  ears  for  you! 
You  braying  jackass! — you  sniveling  idiot!  Who  makes  the 
Brilliant  draw  ?     You  or  I  ?     Tell  me  that,  you  staring  old — " 

Here  Tommy,  who  had  for  some  minutes  been  vainly  en- 
deavoring to  attract  her  attention,  raised  his  weak  voice  to  a 
feeble  shout. 

"I  say.  Miss  Vere!  I've  been  trying  to  tell  you,  but  you 
won't  listen!     There's  a  lady  waiting  to  see  you!" 

"A  what?"  she  asked. 

"A  lady!"  continued  Tommy,  in  loud  tones.  "A  lady  of 
title!     Wants  to  see  you  in  private.     Won't  detain  you  long." 

Violet  Vere  raised  her  pewter  mug  once  more,  and  drained 
off  its  contents. 

"Lord,  ain't  I  honored!"  she  said,  smacking  her  lips  with  a 
grin.  "A  lady  of  title  to  see  me!  Let  her  wait!  Now  then!" 
and  snapping  her  fingers,  she  began  her  dance,  and  went 
through  it  to  the  end,  with  her  usual  vigor  and  frankness. 
When  she  had  finished,  she  tu.rned  to  the  red-faced  man  who 


372  THELMA. 

had  watched  her  evohitions  with  much  delight  in  spite  of  the 
abuse  she  had  heaped  upon  him,  and  said  with  an  affected, 
smirking  drawl: 

"Show  the  lady  of  title  into  my  dressing-room.  I  shall  be 
ready  for  her  in  ten  minutes.  Be  sure  to  mention  that  I  am 
very  shy — and  unaccustomed  to  company!" 

And,  giggling  gently  like  an  awkward  school-girl,  she  held 
down  her  head  with  feigned  bashfulness,  and  stepped  minc- 
ingly  across  the  stage  with  such  a  ludicrous  air  of  prim  pro- 
priety that  all  her  associates  burst  out  laughing  and  applauded 
her  vociferously.  She  turned  and  courtesied  to  them  demure- 
ly— then  suddenly  raising  one  leg  in  a  horizontal  position,  she 
twirled  it  rapidly  in  their  faces — then  she  gave  a  little  shocked 
cough  behind  her  hand,  grinned,  and  vanished. 

When,  in  the  stipulated  ten  minutes,  she  was  ready  to  re- 
ceive her  unknown  visitor,  she  was  quite  transformed.  She 
had  arrayed  herself  in  a  trailing  gown  of  rich  black  velvet, 
fastened  at  the  side  with  jet  clasps — a  cluster  of  natural,  inno- 
cent, white  violets  nestled  in  the  fall  of  Spanish  lace  at  her 
throat — her  face  was  pale  with  pearl-powder,  and  she  had 
eaten  a  couple  of  scented  bonbons  to  drown  the  smell  of  her 
recent  brandy  tipple.  She  reclined  gracefully  in  an  easy- 
chair,  pretending  to  read,  and  she  rose  with  an  admirably 
acted  air  of  startled  surprise  as  one  of  the  errand  boys  be- 
longing to  the  Brilliant  tapped  at  her  door,  and  in  answer  to 
her  "Come  in!"  announced,  "Lady  Winsleigh!" 

A  faint,  sweet,  questioning  smile  played  on  the  Vere's  wide 
mouth. 

"I  am  not  aware  that  I  have  the  honor  of — "  she  began, 
modulating  her   voice   to   the   requirements   of   fashionable 

society,  and  wondering  within  herself  "what  the  d 1"  this 

woman  in  the  silk  and  sable-fur  costume  wanted. 

Lady  Winsleigh  in  the  meantime  stared  at  her  with  cold, 
critical  eyes. 

"She  is  positively  rather  handsome,"  she  thought.  "I  can 
quite  imagine  a  certain  class  of  men  losing  their  heads  about 
her."     Aloud  she  said: 

"I  must  apologize  for  this  intrusion,  Miss  Vere!  I  dare  say 
you  have  never  heard  my  name — I  am  not  fortunate  enough 
to  be  famous — as  you  are."  This  with  a  killing  satire  in  her 
smile.  "May  I  sit  down?  Thanks!  I  have  called  upon  you 
in  the  hope  that  you  may  perhaps  be  able  to  give  me  a  little 


THELMA.  373 

information  in  a  private  matter — a  matter  concerning  the 
happiness  of  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine." 

She  paused — Violet  Vere  sat  silent.  After  a  minute  or  two, 
her  ladyship  continued  in  a  somewhat  embarrassed  manner: 
"I  believe  you  know  a  gentleman  with  whom  I  am  also  ac- 
quainted— Sir*  Philip  Bruce-Errington." 

Miss  Vere  raised  her  eyes  with  charming  languor  and  a  slow 
SHaile. 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"He  visits  you,  doesn't  he?" 

"Frequently!" 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  think  me  rude  and  inquisitive,"  continued 
Lady  Winsleigh,  with  a  coaxing  air,  "but — but  may  I  ask — " 

"Anything  in  the  world,"  interrupted  Violet,  coolly.  "Ask 
away!     But  I'm  not  bound  to  answer." 

Lady  Winsleigh  reddened  with  indignation.  "What  an  in- 
sulting creature!"  she  thought.  But,  after  all,  she  had  put 
herself  in  her  present  position,  and  she  could  not  very  well 
complain  if  she  met  with  a  rebuff.     She  made  another  effort. 

"Sir  Francis  Lennox  told  me,"  she  began. 

The  Vere  interrupted  her  with  a  cheerful  laugh. 

"Oh,  you  come  from  him,  do  you?  Now,  why  didn't  you 
tell  me  that  at  first?  It's  all  right!  You're  a  great  friend  of 
Lennie's,  aren't  you?" 

Lady  Winsleigh  sat  erect  and  haughty,  a  deadly  chill  of 
disgust  and  fear  at  her  heart.  This  creature  called  her  quon- 
dam lover  "Lennie" — even  as  she  herself  had  done — and  she, 
the  proud,  vain  woman  of  society  and  fashion,  shuddered  at 
the  idea  that  there  should  be  even  this  similarity  between  her- 
self and  the  "thing"  called  Violet  Vere.    She  replied  stiffly: 

"I  have  known  him  a  long  time." 

"He's  a  nice  fellow,"  went  on  Miss  Vere,  easily — "a  leetle 
stingy  sometimes,  but  never  mind  that!  You  want  to  know 
about  Sir  Philip  Errington,  and  I'll  tell  you.  He's  chosen  to 
mix  himself  up  with  some  affairs  of  mine — " 

"What  affairs?"  asked  Lady  Winsleigh,  rather  eagerly. 

"They  don't  concern  you,"  returned  Miss  Vere  calmly,  "and 
we  needn't  talk  about  them!  But  they  concern  Sir  Philip 
— or  he  thinks  they  do,  and  insists  on  seeing  me  about  them, 
and  holding  long  conversations,  which  bore  me  excessively!" 
She  yawned  slightly,  smothering  her  yawn  in  a  dainty  lace 
handkerchief,  and  then  went  on:     "He's  a  moral  young  man, 


374  THELMA. 

don't  you  know — and  I  never  could  endure  moral  men!  I 
can't  get  on  with  them  at  all!" 

"Then  you  don't  like  him?"  questioned  Lady  Winsleigh,  in 
rather  a  disappointed  tone. 

"No,  I  don't!"  said  the  Yere,  candidly.  "He's  not  my  sort. 
But,  Lord  bless  you!  I  know  how  he's  getting  talked  about 
because  he  comes  here — and  serves  him  right  too!  He 
shouldn't  meddle  with  my  business."  She  paused  suddenly 
and  drew  a  letter  from  her  pocket — laughed  and  tossed  it 
across  the  table. 

"You  can  read  that,  if  you  like,"  she  said,  indifferently. 
"He  wrote  it  and  sent  it  round  to  me  last  night." 

Lady  Winsleigh's  eyes  glistened  eagerly — she  recognized 
Errington's  bold,  clear  hand  at  once,  and  as  she  read,  an  ex- 
pression of  triumph  played  on  her  features.  She  looked  up 
presently  and  said: 

"Have  you  any  further  use  for  this  letter.  Miss  Vere?  Or 
— will  you  allow  me  to  keep  it?" 

The  Vere  seemed  slightly  suspicious  of  this  proposal,  but 
looked  amused  too. 

"Why,  what  do  you  want  it  for?"  she  inquired,  bluntly. 
"To  tease  him  about  me?" 

Lady  Winsleigh  forced  a  smile.  "Well — perhaps!"  she  ad- 
mitted; then  with  an  air  of  gentleness  and  simplicity  she 
continued:  "I  think,  Miss  Vere,  with  you,  that  it  is  very 
wrong  of  Sir  Philip — very  absurd  of  him,  in  fact — to  interfere 
with  your  affairs,  whatever  they  may  be — and  as  it  is  very 
likely  annoying  to  you — " 

"It  is,"  interposed  Violet,  decidedly. 

"Then,  with  the  help  of  this  letter — which,  really — really — 
excuse  me  for  saying  it! — quite  compromises  him,"  and  her 
ladyship  looked  amiably  concerned  about  it,  "I  might  perhaps 
persuade  him  not  to — to — intrude  upon  you — you  understand? 
But  if  you  object  to  part  with  the  letter,  never  mind!  If  I  did 
not  fear  to  offend  you,  I  should  ask  you  to  exchange  it  for — 
for  something  more — well!  let  us  say,  something  more  sub- 
stantial— " 

"Don't  beat  about  the  bush!"  said  Violet,  with  a  sudden 
oblivion  of  her  company  manners.     "You  mean  money?" 

Lady  Winsleigh  smiled.  "As  you  put  it  so  frankly.  Miss 
Vere — "  she  began. 

"Of  course!     I'm  always  frank,"  returned  the  Vere,  with  a 


THELMA.  375 

loud  laugh.  "Besides,  what's  the  good  of  pretending? 
Money's  the  only  thing  worth  having — it  pays  your  butcher, 
baker,  and  dress-maker — and  how  are  you  to  get  along  if  you 
can't  pay  them,  I'd  hke  to  know!  Lord!  if  all  the  letters  I've 
got  from  fools  were  paying  stock  instead  of  waste-paper,  I'd 
shut  up  shop  and  leave  the  Brilliant  to  look  out  for  itself!" 

Lady  Winsleigh  felt  she  had  gained  her  object,  and  she 
could  now  afford  to  be  gracious. 

"That  would  be  a  great  loss  to  the  world,"  she  remarked, 
sweetly.  "An  immense  loss!  London  could  scarcely  get  on 
without  Violet  Vere!"  Here  she  opened  her  purse  and  took 
out  some  bank-notes,  which  she  folded  and  slipped  inside  an 
envelope.     "Then  I  may  have  the  letter?"  she  continued. 

"You  may  and  welcome!"  returned  Violet. 

Lady  Winsleigh  instantly  held  out  the  envelope,  which  she 
as  instantly  clutched.  "Especially  if  you'll  tell  Sir  Philip 
Errington  to  mind  his  own  business!"  She  paused,  and  a 
dark  flush  mounted  to  her  brow — one  of  those  sudden  flushes 
that  purpled  rather  than  crimsoned  her  face.  "Yes,"  she  re- 
peated, "as  he's  a  friend  of  yours,  just  tell  him  I  said  he  was 
to  mind  his  own  business!  Lord!  what  does  he  want  to  come 
here  and  preach  at  me  for!  I  don't  want  his  sermons! 
Moral!"  here  she  laughed  rather  hoarsely,  "I'm  as  moral  as  any 
one  on  the  stage!  Who  says  I'm  not?  Take  'em  all  round — 
there's  not  a  soul  beliind  the  foot-lights  more  open  and  above- 
board  than  I  am!" 

And  her  eyes  flashed  defiantly. 

"She's  been  drinking!"  thought  Lady  Winsleigh,  disgusted- 
ly. In  fact,  the  "Vere's  Own"  tipple  had  begun  to  take  its 
usual  effect,  which  was  to  make  the  Vere  herself  both  blatant 
and  boisterous. 

"I'm  sure,"  said  her  ladyship  with  frigid  politeness,  "that 
you  are  everything  that  is  quite  charming.  Miss  Vere!  I  have 
a  great  respect  for  the — the  ornaments  of  the  EngHsh  stage. 
Society  has  quite  thrown  down  its  former  barriers,  you  know 
— the  members  of  your  profession  are  received  in  the  very  best 
circles — " 

"I  ain't!"  said  Violet,  with  ungrammatical  candor.  "Your 
Irvings  and  your  Terrys,  your  Mary  Andersons  and  your 
Langtrys — ^they're  good  enough  for  your  fine  drawing-rooms, 
and  get  more  invitations  out  than  they  can  accept.    And  none 


376  THELMA. 

of  them  have  got  half  my  talent,  I  tell  you!  Lord  bless  my 
soul!  if  they're  respectable  enough  for  you — so  am  I!" 

And  she  struck  her  hand  emphatically  on  the  table.  Lady 
Winsleigh  looked  at  her  with  a  slight  smile. 

"1  must  really  say  good-bye!"  she  said,  rising  and  gather- 
ing her  furs  about  her.  "I  could  talk  with  you  all  the  morn- 
ing, Miss  Vere,  but  I  have  so  many  engagements!  Besides,  I 
mustn't  detain  you!  I'm  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  your 
kind  reception  of  me!" 

"Don't  mention  it!"  and  Violet  glanced  her  over  with  a 
kind  of  sullen  sarcasm.  "I'm  bound  to  please  Lennie  when  I 
can,  you  know!" 

Again  Lady  Winsleigh  shivered  a  little,  but  forced  herself 
to  shake  hands  with  the  notorious  stage  Jezebel. 

"I  shall  come  and  see  you  in  the  new  piece,"  she  said, 
graciously.  "I  always  take  a  box  on  first  nights!  And  your 
dancing  is  so  exquisite!  The  very  poetry  6t  motion!  So 
pleased  to  have  met  you!     Good-bye!" 

And  with  a  few  more  vague  compliments  and  remarks  about 
the  weather,  Lady  Winsleigh  took  her  departure.  Left  alone, 
the  actress  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair  and  laughed. 

"That  woman's  up  to  some  mischief,"  she  exclaimed,  sotto 
voce,  "and  so  is  Lennie!  I  wonder  what's  their  little  game? 
I  don't  care,  as  long  as  they'll  keep  the  high  and  mighty 
Errington  in  his  place.  I'm  tired  of  him!  Why  does  he  med- 
dle with  my  affairs?"  Her  brows  knitted  into  a  frown.  "As 
if  he  or  anybody  else  could  persuade  me  to  go  back  to — "  she 
paused,  and  bit  her  lips  angrily.  Then  she  opened  the  en- 
velope Lady  Winsleigh  had  left  with  her,  and  pulled  out  the 
bank-notes  inside.  "Let  me  see — five,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty! 
Not  bad  pay,  on  the  whole!  It'll  just  cover  the  bill  for  my 
plush  mantle.     Halloo!     Who's  there?" 

Some  one  knocked  at  her  door. 

"Come  in!"  she  cried. 

The  feeble  Tommy  presented  himself.  His  weak  mouth 
trembled  more  than  ever,  and  he  was  apparently  conscious  of 
this,  for  he  passed  his  hand  nervously  across  it  two  or  three 
times. 

"Well,  what's  up?"  inquired  the  "star"  of  the  Brilliant, 
fingering  her  bank-notes  as  she  spoke. 

"Miss  Vere,"  stammered  Tommy,  "I  venture  to  ask  of  you  a 
favor — could  you  kindly,  very  kindly  lend  me  ten  shillings  till 


THELMA.  377 

to-morrow  night  ?  I  am  so  pressed  just  now — and  my  wife  is 
ill  in  bed — and — "  he  stopped,  and  his  eyes  sought  her  face, 
hopefully,  yet  timidly. 

"You  shouldn't  have  a  wife,  Tommy!"  averred  Violet,  with 
blunt  frankness.  "Wives  are  expensive  articles.  Besides,  I 
never  lend.  I  never  give — except  to  public  charities  where 
one's  name  gets  m.entioned  in  the  papers.  "I'm  obliged  to 
do  that,  you  know,  by  way  of  advertisement.  Ten  shillings! 
Why,  I  can't  afford  ten  pence!  My  bills  would  frighten  you, 
Tommy!  There,  go  along,  and  don't  cry,  for  goodness'  sake! 
Let  your  fiddle  cry  for  you!" 

"Oh,  Miss  Vere,"  once  more  pleaded  Tommy,  "if  you  knew 
how  my  wife  suffers — " 

The  actress  rose  and  stamped  her  foot  impatiently. 

"Bother  your  wife!"  she  cried,  angrily,  "and  you  too!  Look 
out!  or  I'll  tell  the  manager  we've  got  a  beggar  at  the  Bril- 
liant.    Don't  stare  at  me  like  that!     Go  to  the  d 1  with 

you !" 

Tommy  slunk  off  abashed  and  trembling,  and  the  Vere  be- 
gan to  sing,  or  rather  croak,  a  low  comic  song,  while  she 
threw  over  her  shoulders  a  rich  mantle  glittering  with  em- 
broidered trimmings,  and  poised  a  coquettish  Paris  model  hat 
on  her  uptwisted  coils  of  hair.  Thus  attired,  she  passed 
out  of  her  dressing-room,  locking  the  door  behind  her,  and 
after  a  brief  conversation  with  the  jocose  acting  manager, 
whom  she  met  on  her  way  out,  she  left  the  theater,  and  took 
a  cab  to  the  Criterion,  where  the  young  Duke  of  Moorlands, 
her  latest  conquest,  had  invited  her  to  a  sumptuous  luncheon 
with  himself  and  friends,  all  men  of  fashion,  who  were  run- 
ning through  what  money  they  had  as  fast  as  they  could  go. 

Lady  Winsleigh,  on  her  way  home,  was  tormented  by  sun- 
dry uncomfortable  thoughts  and  sharp  pricks  of  conscience. 
Her  interview  with  Violet  Vere  had  instinctively  convinced 
her  that  Sir  Philip  was  innocent  of  the  intrigue  imputed  to 
him,  and  yet — the  letter  she  had  now  in  her  possession  seemed 
to  prove  him  guilty.  And  though  she  felt  herself  to  be  play- 
ing a  vile  part,  she  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  trying 
what  the  effect  would  be  of  this  compromising  document  on 
Thelma's  trusting  mind.  It  was  undoubtedly  a  very  incrimi- 
nating epistle — any  lawyer  would  have  said  as  much  while 
blandly  pocketing  his  fee  for  saying  it.  It  was  written  off  in 
evident  haste,  and  ran  as  follows: 


378  THELMA. 

"Let  me  see  you  once  more  on  the  subject  you  know  of.  Why 
will  you  not  accept  the  honorable  position  offered  to  you? 
There  shall  be  no  stint  of  money — all  the  promises  I  have  made 
I  am  quite  ready  to  fulfill — you  shall  lose  nothing  by  being 
gentle.  Surely  you  can  not  continue  to  seem  so  destitute  of 
all  womanly  feeling  and  pity?  I  will  not  believe  that  you 
would  so  deliberately  condemn  to  death  a  man  who  has  loved, 
and  who  loves  you  still  so  faithfully,  and  who,  without  you,  is 
utterly  weary  of  life  and  broken-hearted!  Think  once  more 
— and  let  my  words  carry  more  weight  with  you! 

'  'Bruce-Ebbington.  " 

This  was  all,  but  more  than  enough! 

"I  wonder  what  he  means,"  thought  Lady  Winsleigh,  "It 
looks  as  if  he  were  in  love  with  the  Vere  and  she  refused  to 
reciprocate.  It  must  be  that.  And  yet  that  doesn't  accord 
with  what  the  creature  herself  said  about  his  'preaching  at 
her.'    He  wouldn't  do  that  if  he  were  in  love." 

She  studied  every  word  of  the  letter  again  and  again,  and 
finally  folded  it  up  carefully  and  placed  it  in  her  pocket-book. 

"Innocent  or  guilty,  Thelma  must  see  it,"  she  decided.  "I 
wonder  how  she'll  take  it!  If  she  wants  a  proof — it's  one 
she'll  scarcely  deny.  Some  women  would  fret  themselves  to 
death  over  it — but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  sat  down  under 
it  quite  calmly  without  a  word  of  complaint."  She  frowned  a 
little.  "Why  must  she  always  be  superior  to  others  of  her 
sex!  How  I  detest  that  still,  solemn  smile  of  hers  and  those 
big  baby-blue  eyes!  I  think  if  Philip  had  married  any  other 
woman  than  her — a  woman  more  like  the  rest  of  us,  who'd 
have  gone  with  her  time — I  could  have  forgiven  him  more 
easily.  But  to  pick  up  a  Norwegian  peasant  and  set  her  up 
as  a  sort  of  moral  finger-post  to  society — and  then  to  go  and 
compromise  himself  with  Violet  Vere — that's  a  kind  of  thing 
I  can't  stand!  I'd  rather  be  anything  in  the  world  than  a 
humbug." 

Many  people  desire  to  be  something  they  are  not,  and  her 
ladyship  quite  unconsciously  echoed  this  rather  general  sen- 
timent. She  was,  without  knowing  it,  such  an  adept  in 
society  humbug  that  she  even  humbugged  herself.  She  be- 
trayed herself  as  she  betrayed  others,  and  told  little  soothing 
lies  to  her  own  conscience  as  she  told  them  to  her  friends. 
There  are  plenty  of  women  like  her — women  of  pleasant 
courtesy  and  fashion  to  whom  truth  is  mere  coarseness — and 
with  whom  polite  lying  passes  for  perfect  breeding.  She  was 
not  aware,  as  she  was  driven  along  Park  Lane  to  her  own  resi- 


THELMA.  379 

dence,  that  she  carried  with  her  on  the  box  of  her  brougham 
a  private  detective  in  the  person  of  Briggs.  Perched 
stiffly  on  his  seat,  with  arms  tightly  folded,  this  respectable 
retainer  was  quite  absorbed  in  meditation,  so  much  so  that  he 
exchanged  not  a  word  with  his  friend,  the  coachman  beside 
him.  He  had  his  own  notions  of  propriety — he  considered 
that  his  mistress  had  no  business  whatever  to  call  on  an  actress 
of  Violet  Vere's  repute — and  he  resolved  that  whether  he  were 
reproved  for  overofficiousness  or  not,  nothing  should  prevent 
him  from  casually  mentioning  to  Lord  Winsleigh  the  object 
of  her  ladyship's  drive  that  morning. 

"For,"'  mused  Briggs,  gravely,  "a  lady  'as  responsibilities, 
and  'owever  she  forgets  'erself,  appearances  'as  to  be  kep'  up." 

With  the  afternoon,  the  fog  which  had  hung  over  the  city 
all  day  deepened  and  darkened.  Thelma  had  lunched  with 
Mrs.  Lorimer,  and  had  enjoyed  much  pleasant  chat  with  that 
kindly,  cheerful  old  lady.  She  had  confided  to  her  part  of  the 
story  of  Sir  Francis  Lennox's  conduct,  carefully  avoiding 
every  mention  of  the  circumstance  which  had  given  rise  to  it 
— namely,  the  discussion  about  Violet  Vere.  She  merely  ex- 
plained that  she  had  suddenly  fainted,  in  which  condition  Sir 
Francis  had  taken  advantage  of  her  helplessness  to  insult  her. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  was  highly  indignant.  "Tell  your  husband 
all  about  it,  my  dear!"  she  advised.  "He's  big  enough  and 
strong  enough  to  give  that  little  snob  a  good  trouncing!  My 
patience!  I  wish  George  were  in  London — he'd  lend  a  hand 
and  welcome!" 

And  the  old  lady  nodded  her  head  violently  over  the  sock 
she  was  knitting — the  making  of  socks  for  her  beloved  son 
was  her  principal  occupation  and  amusement. 

"But  I  hear,"  said  Thelma,  "that  it  is  against  the  law  to 
strike  any  one,  no  matter  how  you  have  been  insulted.  If  so 
— then  Philip  would  be  punished  for  attacking  Sir  Francis, 
and  that  would  not  be  fair." 

^'You  didn't  think  of  that,  child,  when  you  struck  Lennox 
yourself,"  returned  Mrs.  Lorimer,  laughing.  "And  I  guaran- 
tee you  gave  him  a  good  hard  blow — and  serves  him  right! 
Never  mind  what  comes  of  it,  my  dearie — just  tell  your  hus- 
band as  soon  as  ever  he  comes  home,  and  let  him  take  the 
matter  into  his  own  hands.  He's  a  fine  man — he'll  know  how 
to  defend  the  pretty  wife  he  loves  so  well!"  And  she  smiled, 
while  her  shining  knitting-needles  clicked  faster  than  ever. 


380  THELMA. 

Thelma's  face  saddened  a  little.  "I  think  I  am  not  worthy 
of  his  love,"  she  said,  sorrowfully. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  looked  at  her  with  some  inquisitivenesa. 

"What  makes  you  say  that,  my  dear?" 

"Because  I  feel  it  so  much,"  she  replied.  "Dear  Mrs.  Lori- 
mer, you  can  not,  perhaps,  understand,  but  when  he  married 
me,  it  seemed  as  if  the  old  story  of  the  king  and  the  beggar- 
maid  were  being  repeated  over  again.  I  sought  nothing  but 
his  love — his  love  was  and  is  my  life!  These  riches — these 
jewels  and  beautiful  things  he  surrounds  me  mth — I  do  not 
care  for  them  at  all,  except  for  the  reason  that  he  wishes  me 
to  have  them.  I  scarcely  understand  their  value,  for  I  have 
been  poor  all  my  life,  and  yet  I  have  wanted  nothing.  I  do 
not  think  wealth  is  needful  to  make  one  happy.  But  love — 
ah!  I  could  not  live  without  it — and  now — now — "  She 
paused  and  her  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears. 

"Now  what?"  asked  Mrs.  Lorimer,  gently. 

"Now,"  continued  the  girl  in  a  low  voice,  "my  heart  is 
always  afraid!  Yes,  I  am  afraid  of  losing  my  husband's  love. 
Ah,  do  not  laugh  at  me,  dear  Mrs.  Lorimer!  You  know  peo- 
ple who  are  much  together  sometimes  get  tired — tired  of  see- 
ing the  same  face  always — the  same  form — " 

"Are  you  tired,  dearie?"  asked  the  old  lady,  meaningly. 

"I!  Tired  of  Philip?  I  am  only  happy  when  he  is  with 
me!"  And  her  eyes  deepened  with  passionate  tenderness.  "I 
would  wish  to  live  and  die  beside  him,  and  I  should  not  care 
if  I  never  saw  another  human  face  than  his!" 

"Well,  and  don't  you  think  he  has  the  same  feelings  for 
you?" 

"Men  are  different,  I  think,"  returned  Thelma,  musingly, 
"Now,  love  is  everything  to  me — but  it  may  not  be  everything 
to  Philip.  I  do  beheve  that  love  is  only  part  of  a  man's  life, 
while  it  is  all  a  woman's.  Clara  told  me  once  that  most  hus- 
bands wearied  of  their  wives,  though  they  would  not  always 
confess  it — " 

"Clara  Winsleigh's  modern  social  doctrines  are  false,  my 
dear!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Lorimer,  quickly.  "She  isn't  satis- 
fied with  her  own  marriage,  and  she  thinks  everybody  must 
be  as  discontented  as  herself.  Now,  my  husband  and  I  lived 
always  together  for  five-and-twenty  years,  and  we  were  lovers 
to  the  last  day,  when  my  darling  died  with  his  hands  in  mine 


THELMA.  381 

— and — and — if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  boy,  I  should  have  died 

too!" 

And   two  bright  tears  fell   ghttering   on  the   old   lady's 

knitting. 

Thelma  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  fondly.  '1  can  under- 
stand that,"  she  said,  softly;  "but  still — still  I  do  believe  it 
is  difficult  to  keep  love  when  you  have  won  it!  It  is,  perhaps, 
easy  to  win — but  I  am  sure  it  is  hard  to  keep!" 

Mrs.  Lorimer  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

"My  dear  child,  don't  let  that  frivolous  Winsleigh  woman 
put  nonsense  into  your  pretty  head.  You  are  too  sensible  to 
take  such  a  morbid  view  of  things — and  you  mustn't  allow 
your  wholesome  fresh  nature  to  be  contaminated  by  the  petu- 
lant, wrong-headed  notions  that  clod  the  brains  of  idle,  fash- 
ionable, useless  women.  Believe  me,  good  men  don't  tire  of 
their  wives — and  Sir  PhiKp  is  a  good  man.  Good  wives  never 
weary  their  husbands — and  you  are  a  good  wife — and  you  will 
be  a  good,  sweet  mother.  Think  of  that  new  dehght  so  soon 
coming  for  you,  and  leave  all  the  modern,  crazy,  one-sided  no- 
tions of  human  life  to  the  French  and  Eussian  novelists.  Tut 
tut!"  continued  the  old  lady,  tenderly.  "A  nice  little  ladyship 
you  are  — worrying  yourself  about  nothing!  Send  Philip  to 
me  when  he  comes  home.  I'll  scold  him  for  leaving  his  bird 
to  mope  in  her  London  cage!" 

"I  do  not  mope,"  declared  Thelma.  "And  you  must  not 
scold  him,  please!  Poor  boy!  He  is  working  so  very  hard, 
and  has  so  much  to  attend  to.  He  wants  to  distinguish  Mm- 
self  for — for  my  sake!" 

"That  looks  very  much  as  if  he  were  tired  of  you!"  laughed 
Mrs.  Lorimer.  "Though  I  dare  say  you'd  like  him  to  stay  at 
home  and  make  love  to  you  all  day!  Silly  girl!  You  want 
the  world  to  be  a  sort  of  Arcadia,  with  you  as  Phyllis,  and  Sir 
Philip  as  Corydon!  My  dear,  we're  living  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  and  the  days  of  fond  shepherds  and  languishing 
shepherdesses  are  past!" 

Thelma  laughed,  too,  and  soon  felt  ashamed  of  her  depres- 
sion. The  figure  of  Violet  Vere  now  and  then  danced  before 
her  like  a  mocking  will-o'-the-wisp;  but  her  pride  forbade  her 
to  mention  this — the  actual  source  of  all  her  vague  troubles. 

She  left  Mrs.  Lorimer's  house,  which  was  near  Holland 
Park,  about  four  o'clock,  and  as  she  was  passing  Church 
Street,  Kensington,  she  bade  her  coachman  drive  up  to  the 


382  THELMA. 

Carmelite  Church  there,  familiarly  known  as  the  "Carms." 
She  entered  the  sacred  edifice,  where  the  service  of  benedic- 
tion was  in  progress;  and,  kneeling  down,  she  listened  to  the 
exquisite  strains  of  the  solemn  music  that  pealed  through  the 
dim  and  shadowy  aisles,  and  a  sense  of  the  most  perfect  peace 
settled  soothingly  on  her  soul.  Clasping  her  gentle  hands, 
she  prayed  with  innocent  and  heartfelt  earnestness — not  for 
herself — never  for  herself — but  always,  always  for  that  dear, 
most  dear  one,  for  whom  every  beat  of  her  true  heart  was  a 
fresh  vow  of  undying  and  devoted  affection, 

"Dear  God!"  she  whispered,  "if  I  love  him  too  much,  for- 
give me!  Thou  who  art  all  Love  wilt  pardon  me  this  excess  of 
love!  Bless  my  darling  always,  and  teach  me  how  to  be 
more  worthy  of  Thy  goodness  and  his  tenderness!" 

And  when  she  left  the  church,  she  was  happier  and  more 
light-hearted  than  she  had  been  for  many  a  long  day.  She 
drove  home,  heedless  of  the  fog  and  cold,  dismal  aspect  of  the 
weather,  and  resolved  to  go  and  visit  Lady  Winsleigh  in  the 
evening,  so  that  when  Philip  came  back  on  the  morrow,  she 
might  be  able  to  tell  him  that  she  had  amused  herself  and  had 
not  been  lonely. 

But  when  she  arrived  at  her  own  door,  Morris,  who  opened 
it,  informed  her  that  Lady  Winsleigh  was  waiting  in  the 
drawing-room  to  see  her,  and  had  been  waiting  some  time. 
Thelma  hastened  thither  immediately,  and  held  out  her  hands 
joyously  to  her  friend. 

"I  am  so  sorry  you  have  had  to  wait,  Clara,"  she  began. 
"Why  did  you  not  send  word  and  say  you  were  coming? 
Philip  is  away  and  will  not  be  back  to-night,  and  I  have  been 
lunching  with  Mrs.  Lorimer,  and —  Why,  what  makes  you 
look  so  grave?" 

Lady  Winsleigh  regarded  her  fixedly.  How  radiantly 
lovely  the  young  wife  looked! — her  cheeks  had  never  been 
more  delicately  rosy  or  her  eyes  more  brilliant.  The  dark 
fur  cloak  she  wore  with  its  rich  sable  trimmings,  and  the  Ut- 
tle  black  velvet  toque  that  rested  on  her  fair  curls,  set  off  the 
beauty  of  her  clear  skin  to  perfection,  and  her  rival,  who 
stood  gazing  at  her  with  such  close  scrutiny,  envied  her  more 
than  ever  as  she  was  once  again  reluctantly  forced  to  admit  to 
herself  the  matchless  loveliness  of  the  innocent  creature 
whose  happiness  she  now  sought  to  destroy. 

"Do  I  look  grave,  Thelma?"  she  said  with  a  slight  smile. 


THELMA.  383 

"Well,  perhaps  I've  a  reason  for  my  gravity.     And  so  your 
husband  is  away?" 

"Yes.  He  went  quite  early  this  morning — a  telegram  sum- 
moned him  and  he  was  obliged  to  go."  Here  she  drew  up  a 
chair  to  the  fire,  and  began  to  loosen  her  wraps.  "Sit  down, 
Clara!     I  will  ring  for  tea." 

"No  don't  ring,"  said  Lady  Winsleigh.  "Not  yet!  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  privately."  She  sunk  languidly  on  a  velvet 
lounge  and  looked  Thelma  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Dear  Thelma,"  she  continued,  in  a  sweetly  tremulous, 
compassionate  voice,  "can  you  bear  to  hear  something  very 
painful  and  shocking,  something  that  I'm  afraid  will  grieve 
you  very  much?" 

The  color  fled  from  the  girl's  fair  face — her  eyes  grew 
startled. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Clara?  Is  it  anything  about — about 
Philip?" 

Lady  Winsleigh  bent  her  head  in  assent,  but  remained 
silent. 

"If,"  continued  Thelma,  with  a  little  return  of  the  rosy  hue 
to  her  cheeks,  "if  it  is  something  else  about  that — that  person 
at  the  theater,  indeed,  Clara,  I  would  rather  not  hear  it!  I 
think  I  have  been  wrong  in  listening  to  any  such  stories — it  is 
so  seldom  that  gossip  of  any  kind  is  true.  It  is  not  a  wife's 
duty  to  receive  scandals  about  her  husband.  And  suppose  he 
does  see  Miss  Vere,  how  do  I  know  that  it  may  not  be  on 
business  for  some  friend  of  his? — because  I  do  know  that  on 
that  night  when  he  went  behind  the  scenes  at  the  Brilliant  he 
said  it  was  on  business.  Mr.  Lovelace  used  often  to  go  and 
see  Miss  Mary  Anderson,  all  to  persuade  her  to  take  a  play 
written  by  a  friend  of  his — and  Philip,  who  is  always  kind- 
hearted,  may  perhaps  be  doing  something  of  the  same  sort.  I 
feel  I  have  been  wicked  to  have  even  a  small  doubt  of  my 
husband's  love — so,  Clara,  do  not  let  us  talk  any  more  on  a 
subject  which  only  displeases  me." 

"You  must  choose  your  own  way  of  life,  of  course,"  said 
Lady  Winsleigh,  coldly.  "But  you  draw  rather  foolish  com- 
parisons, Thelma.  There  is  a  wide  difference  between  Mary 
Anderson  and  Violet  Vere.  Besides,  Mr.  Lovelace  is  a  bache- 
lor— he  can  do  as  he  likes  and  go  where  he  likes  without  ex- 
citing comment.     However,  whether  you  are  angry  with  me 


384  THELMA. 

or  not,  I  feel  I  should  not  be  your  true  friend  if  I  did  not  show 
you — this.     You  know  your  husband's  writing!" 

And  she  drew  out  the  fatal  letter,  and  continued,  watching 
her  victim  as  she  spoke.  "This  was  sent  by  Sir  Philip  to 
Violet  Vere  last  night — she  gave  it  to  me  herself  this  morn- 
ing." 

Thelma's  hand  trembled  as  she  took  the  paper. 

'HiVhy  should  I  read  it?"  she  faltered,  mechanically. 

Lady  Winsleigh  raised  her  eyebrows  and  frowned  im- 
patiently. 

"Why — why?  Because  it  is  your  duty  to  do  so!  Have  you 
no  pride?  Will  you  allow  your  husband  to  write  such  a  letter 
as  that  to  another  woman — and  such  a  woman  too!  without 
one  word  of  remonstrance?  You  owe  it  to  yourself — to  your 
own  sense  of  honor — to  resent  and  resist  such  treatment  on 
his  part!  Surely  the  deepest  love  can  not  pardon  deliberate 
injury  and  insult." 

"My  love  can  pardon  anything,"  answered  the  girl  in  a  low 
voice,  and  then  slowly,  very  slowly  she  opened  the  folded 
sheet — slowly  she  read  every  word  it  contained — words  that 
stamped  themselves  one  by  one  on  her  bewildered  brain  and 
sent  it  reeling  into  darkness  and  vacancy.  She  felt  sick  and 
cold — she  stared  fixedly  at  her  husband's  familiar  handwrit- 
ing. "A  man  who  has  loved  and  who  loves  you  still,  and  who 
without  you  is  utterly  weary  and  broken-hearted!" 

Thus  he  wrote  of  himself  to — to  Violet  Vere!  It  seemed 
incredible — yet  it  was  true!  She  heard  a  rushing  sound  in 
her  ears — the  room  swung  round  dizzily  before  her  eyes — yet 
she  sat,  still,  calm  and  cold,  holding  the  letter  and  speaking 
no  word. 

Lady  Winsleigh  watched  her,  irritated  at  her  passionless 
demeanor. 

"Well!"  she  exclaimed  at  last.     "Have  you  nothing  to  say?" 

Thelma  looked  up,  her  eyes  burning  with  an  intense  fever- 
ish light. 

"Nothing!"  she  replied. 

"Nothing?"  repeated  her  ladyship  with  emphatic  astonish- 
ment. 

"Nothing  against  Philip,"  continued  the  girl,  steadily. 
"For  the  blame  is  not  his,  but  mine!  That  he  is  weary  and 
heart-broken  must  be  my  fault — though  I  can  not  yet  under- 
stand what  I  have  done.     But  it  must  be  something,  because 


THELMA.  S85 

if  T  were  all  that  he  wished  he  would  not  have  grown  so  tired." 
She  paused  and  her  pale  lips  quivered.  "I  am  sorry,"  she 
went  on  with  dreamy  pathos,  "sorrier  for  him  than  for  my- 
self, because  now  I  see  I  am  in  the  way  of  his  happiness."  A 
quiver  of  agony  passed  over  her  face — she  fixed  her  large 
bright  eyes  on  Lady  Winsleigh,  who  instinctively  shrunk  from 
the  solemn  speechless  despair  of  that  penetrating  gaze. 

"Who  gave  you  this  letter,  Clara  ?"  she  asked,  calmly. 

"I  told  you  before — Miss  Vere  herself." 

"Why  did  she  give  it  to  you?"  continued  Thelma  in  a  dull 
sad  voice. 

Lady  Winsleigh  hesitated  and  stammered  a  little.  "Well, 
because — because  I  asked  her  if  the  stories  about  Sir  Philip 
were  true.  And  she  begged  me  to  ask  him  not  to  visit  her  so 
often."  Then,  with  an  additional  thought  of  malice,  she 
said  softly:  "She  doesn't  wish  to  wrong  you,  Thelma — of 
course,  she's  not  a  very  good  woman,  but  I  think  she  feela 
sorry  for  you." 

The  girl  uttered  a  smothered  cry  of  anguish,  as  though  she 
had  been  stabbed  to  the  heart.  She! — to  be  actually  pitied  by 
Violet  Vere,  because  she  had  been  unable  to  keep  her  hus- 
band's love!  This  idea  tortured  her  very  soul — but  she  was 
silent. 

"I  thought  you  were  my  friend,  Clara?"  she  said  suddenly, 
with  a  strange  wistf  ulness. 

"So  I  am,  Thelma,"  murmured  Lady  Winsleigh,  a  guilty 
flush  coloring  her  cheeks. 

"You  have  made  me  very  miserable,"  went  on  Thelma 
gravely,  and  with  pathetic  simplicity,  "and  I  am  sorry  indeed 
that  we  ever  met.  I  was  so  happy  till  I  knew  you! — and  yet 
I  was  very  fond  of  you!  I  am  sure  you  mean  everything  for 
the  best,  but  I  can  not  think  it  is  so.  And  it  is  all  so  dark  and 
desolate  now.  Why  have  you  taken  such  pains  to  make  me 
sad?  Why  have  you  so  often  tried  to  make  me  doubt  my  hus- 
band's love?  Why  have  you  come  to-day  so  quickly  to  tell 
me  I  have  lost  it?  But  for  you  I  might  never  have  known  this 
sorrow — I  might'  have  died  soon,  in  happy  ignorance,  believ- 
ing in  my  darling's  truth  as  I  believe  in  God!" 

Her  voice  broke,  and  a  hard  sob  choked  her  utterance.  For 
once  Lady  Winsleigh's  conscience  smote  her — for  once  she  felt 
ashamed,  and  dared  not  offer  consolation  to  the  innocent  soul 
she  had  so  wantonly  etricken.     For  a  minute  or  two  there 

25 


386  THELMA. 

was  silence,  broken  only  by  the  monotonous  ticking  of  the 
clock  and  the  crackling  of  the  fire. 

Presently  Thelma  spoke  again.  "I  will  ask  you  to  go  away 
now  and  leave  me,  Clara/'  she  said,  simply.  "When  the 
heart  is  sorrowful,  it  is  best  to  be  alone.  Good-bye!"  And 
she  gently  held  out  her  hand. 

"Poor  Thelma!"  said  Lady  Winsleigh,  taking  it  with  an 
affectation  of  tenderness.    "What  will  you  do?" 

Thelma  did  not  answer;  she  sat  mute  and  rigid. 

"You  are  thinking  unkindly  of  me  just  now,"  continued 
Clara,  softly;  "but  I  felt  it  was  my  duty  to  tell  you  the  worst 
at  once.  It's  no  good  living  in  a  delusion!  I'm  very,  very 
sorry  for  you,  Thelma!" 

Thelma  remained  perfectly  silent.  Lady  Winsleigh  moved 
toward  the  door,  and,  as  she  opened  it,  looked  back  at  her. 
The  girl  might  have  been  a  lifeless  figure  for  any  movement 
that  could  be  perceived  about  her.  Her  face  was  white  as 
marble — her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  sparkling  fire — her  very 
hands  looked  stiff  and  pallid  as  wax,  as  they  lay  clasped  in 
her  lap — the  letter — the  cruel  letter — had  fallen  at  her  feet. 
She  seemed  as  one  in  a  trance  of  misery,  and  so  Lady  Wins- 
leigh left  her. 


CHAPTEE    IX. 

0  my  lord,  O  Love, 

1  have  laid  my  life  at  thy  feet; 
Have  thy  will  thereof 

For  what  shall  please  thee  is  sweet! 

SwiNBtTRNE. 

She  roused  herself  at  last.  Unclasping  her  hands,  she 
pushed  back  her  hair  from  her  brows  and  sighed  heavily. 
Shivering  as  with  intense  cold,  she  rose  from  the  chair  she 
had  so  long  occupied,  and  stood  upright,  mechanically  gather- 
ing around  her  her  long  fur  mantle  that  she  had  not  as  yet 
taken  off.  Catching  sight  of  the  letter  where  it  lay,  a  gleam- 
ing speck  of  white  on  the  rich  dark  hues  of  the  carpet,  she 
picked  it  up  and  read  it  through  again  calmly  and  compre- 
hensively— then  folded  it  up  carefully  as  though  it  were  some- 


THELMA.  387 

thing  of  inestimable  value.  Her  thoughts  were  a  little  con- 
fused— she  could  only  realize  clearly  two  distinct  things — 
first,  that  Philip  was  unhappy — secondly,  that  she  was  in  the 
way  of  his  happiness.  She  did  not  pause  to  consider  how  this 
change  in  him  had  been  effected — moreover,  she  never  imag- 
ined that  the  letter  he  had  written  could  refer  to  any  one  but 
himself.  Hers  was  a  nature  that  accepted  facts  as  they  ap- 
peared— she  never  sought  for  ulterior  motives  or  disguised 
meanings.  True,  she  could  not  understand  her  husband's 
admiration  for  Violet  Vere.  "But  then,"  she  thought,  "many 
other  men  admire  her  too.  And  so  it  is  certain  there  must  be 
something  about  her  that  wins  love — something  I  can  not 
see!" 

And  presently  she  put  aside  all  other  considerations  and 
only  pondered  on  one  thing — how  should  she  remove  herself 
from  the  path  of  her  husband's  pleasure?  For  she  had  no 
doubt  but  that  she  was  an  obstacle  to  his  enjoyment.  He  had 
made  promises  to  Violet  Vere  which  he  was  "ready  to  fulfill" 
— he  offered  her  "an  honorable  position" — he  desired  her  "not 
to  condemn  him  to  death" — he  besought  her  to  let  his  words 
"carry  more  weight  with  her." 

"It  is  because  I  am  here,"  thought  Thelma,  wearily.  "She 
would  listen  to  him  if  I  were  gone!"  She  had  the  strangest 
notions  of  wifely  duty — odd  minglings  of  the  stern  Norse  cus- 
toms with  the  gentler  teachings  of  Christianity — yet  in  both 
cases  the  lines  of  woman's  life  were  clearly  defined  in  one 
word — obedience.  Most  women,  receiving  an  apparent  proof 
of  a  husband's  infidelity,  would  have  made  what  is  termed  a 
"scene" — would  have  confronted  him  with  rage  and  tears,  and 
personal  abuse — but  Thelma  was  too  gentle  for  this — too  gen- 
tle to  resist  what  seemed  to  be  Philip's  wish  and  will,  and  far 
too  proud  to  stay  where  it  appeared  evident  she  was  not 
wanted.  Moreover,  she  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  speaking 
to  him  on  such  a  subject  as  his  connection  with  Violet  Vere. 
The  hot  color  flushed  her  cheeks  with  a  sort  of  shame  as  she 
thought  of  it. 

Of  course,  she  was  weak — of  course,  she  was  foolish — we 
will  grant  that  she  was  anything  the  reader  chooses  to  call 
her.  It  is  much  better  for  a  woman  nowadays  to  be  defiant 
rather  than  yielding — aggressive,  not  submissive — violent,  not 
meek.  "We  all  know  that!  To  abuse  a  husband  well  all  round 
is  the  modern  method  of  managing  him!     But  poor,  foolish. 


388  THELMA. 

loving,  sensitive  Thelma  had  nothing  of  the  magnificent 
strength  of  mind  possessed  by  most  wives  of  to-day — she  could 
only  realize  that  Philip — her  Philip — was  "utterly  weary  and 
broken-hearted" — for  the  sake  of  another  woman — and  that 
other  woman  actually  pitied  her!  She  pitied  herself  too,  a 
little  vaguely — her  brows  ached  and  throbbed  violently — there 
was  a  choking  sensation  in  her  throat,  but  she  could  not  weep. 
Tears  would  have  relieved  her  tired  brain,  but  no  tears  fell. 
She  strove  to  decide  on  some  immediate  plan  of  action. 
Philip  would  be  home  to-morrow.  She  recoiled  at  the 
thought  of  meeting  him,  knowing  what  she  knew.  Glancing 
dreamily  at  her  own  figure,  reflected  by  the  lamp-light  in  the 
long  mirror  opposite,  she  recognized  that  she  was  fully  attired 
in  out-door  costume — all  save  her  hat,  which  she  had  taken  off 
at  her  first  greeting  of  Lady  Winsleigh,  and  which  was  still  on 
the  table  at  her  side.  She  looked  at  the  clock — ^it  was  five 
minutes  to  seven.  Eight  o'clock  was  her  dinner-hour,  and 
thinking  of  this,  she  suddenly  rang  the  bell,  Morris  immedi- 
ately answered  it. 

"I  shall  not  dine  at  home,"  she  said  in  her  usual  gentle 
voice.  "I  am  going  to  see  some  friends  this  evening.  I  may 
not  be  back  till — till  late." 

"Very  well,  my  lady,"  and  Morris  retired  without  seeing 
anything  remarkable  in  his  mistress'  announcement.  Thelma 
drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  as  he  disappeared,  and,  steadying 
her  nerves  by  a  strong  effort,  passed  into  her  own  boudoir — 
the  little  sanctum  specially  endeared  to  her  by  Philip's  fre- 
quent presence  there.  How  cozy  and  comfortable  a  home- 
nest  it  looked!  A  small  fire  glowed  warmly  in  the  grate,  and 
Britta,  whose  duty  it  was  to  keep  this  particular  room  in 
order,  had  lighted  the  lamp — a  rosy  globe  supported  by  a 
laughing  Cupid — and  had  drawn  the  velvet  curtains  close  at 
the  window  to  keep  out  the  fog  and  chilly  air.  There  were 
fragrant  flowers  on  the  table — Thelma's  own  favorite  lounge 
was  drawn  up  to  the  fender  in  readiness  for  her — and  opposite 
to  it  stood  the  deep,  old-fashioned  easy-chair  in  which  Philip 
always  sat.  She  looked  round  upon  all  these  familiar  tilings 
with  a  dreary  sense  of  strangeness  and  desolation,  and  the 
curves  of  her  sweet  mouth  trembled  a  little  and  drooped 
piteously.  But  her  resolve  was  taken,  and  she  did  not  hesi- 
tate or  weep.     She  sat  down  to  her  desk  and  wrote  a  few 


THELMA.  389 

brief  lines  to  her  father;  this  letter  she  addressed  and  stamped 
ready  for  posting. 

Then  for  awhile  she  remained  apparently  lost  in  painful 
musings,  playing  with  the  pen  she  held,  and  uncertain  what 
to  do.  Presently  she  drew  a  sheet  of  note-paper  toward  her, 
and  began:  "My  darling  boy."  As  these  words  appeared 
under  her  hand  on  the  white  page,  her  forced  calm  nearly 
gave  way — a  low  cry  of  intense  agony  escaped  from  her  lips, 
and,  dropping  the  pen,  she  rose  and  paced  the  room  restlessly, 
one  hand  pressed  against  her  heart  as  though  that  action  could 
still  its  rapid  beatings.  Once  more  she  essayed  the  hard  task 
she  had  set  herself  to  fulfill — the  task  of  bidding  farewell  to 
the  husband  in  whom  her  life  was  centered.  Piteous,  passion- 
ate words  came  quickly  from  her  overcharged  and  almost 
breaking  heart — words,  tender,  touching,  full  of  love,  and 
absolutely  free  from  all  reproach.  Little  did  she  guess  as  she 
wrote  that  parting  letter  what  desperate  misery  it  would  cause 
to  the  receiver! 

When  she  had  finished  it,  she  felt  quieted — even  more  com- 
posed than  before.  She  folded  and  sealed  it,  then  put  it  out 
of  sight  and  rang  for  Britta.  That  little  maiden  soon  ap- 
peared, and  seemed  surprised  to  see  her  mistress  still  in 
walking  costume. 

"Have  you  only  just  come  in,  Froken?"  she  ventured  to 
inquire. 

"Xo,  I  came  home  some  time  ago,"  returned  Thelma, 
gently.  "But  I  was  talking  to  Lady  Winsleigh  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  as  I  am  going  out  again  this  evening  I  shall 
not  require  to  change  my  dress.  I  want  you  to  post  this  let- 
ter for  me,  Britta." 

And  she  held  out  the  one  addressed  to  her  father,  Olaf 
Guldmar.  Britta  took  it,  but  her  mind  still  revolved  the 
question  of  her  mistress'  attire. 

"If  you  are  going  to  spend  the  evening  with  friends,"  she 
suggested,  "would  it  not  be  better  to  change?" 

"I  have  on  a  velvet  gown,"  said  Thelma,  with  a  rather 
wearied  patience.  "It  is  quite  dressy  enough  for  where  I  am 
going."  She  paused  abruptly,  and  Britta  looked  at  her  in- 
quiringly. 

"Are  you  tired,  Froken  Thelma?"  she  asked.  "You  are  so 
pale!" 

"I  have  a  slight  headache,"  Thelma  answered.     "It  is  noth- 


390  THELMA. 

ing — it  will  soon  pass.     I  wish  you  to  post  that  letter  at  once, 
Britta." 

"Very  well,  Froken."     Britta  still  hesitated.     "Will  you 
be  out  all  the  evening?"  was  her  next  query. 
"Yes." 

"Then  perhaps  you  will  not  mind  if  I  go  and  see  Louise, 
and  take  supper  with  her?  She  has  asked  me;  and  Mr. 
Briggs" — here  Britta  laughed — "is  coming  to  see  if  I  can  go. 
He  will  escort  me,  he  says."     And  she  laughed  again. 

Thelma  forced  herself  to  smile.  "You  can  go,  by  all 
means,  Britta.  But  I  thought  you  did  not  like  Lady  Wins- 
leigh's  French  maid?" 

"I  don't  like  her  much,"  Britta  admitted— "still,  she  means 
to  be  kind  and  agreeable,  I  think.  And" — here  she  eyed 
Thelma  with  a  mysterious  and  important  air — "I  want  to  ask 
her  a  question  about  something  very  particular." 

"Then,  go  and  stay  as  long  as  you  like,  dear,"  said  Thelma, 
a  sudden  impulse  of  affection  causing  her  to  caress  softly  her 
little  maid's  ruffled  brown  curls.  "I  shall  not  be  back  till— 
till  quite  late.  And  when  you  return  from  the  post  I  shall 
be  gone — so — good-bye!" 

"Good-bye!"  exclaimed  Britta,  wonderingly.  "Why,  where 
are  you  going?  One  would  think  you  were  starting  on  a  long 
journey,  you  speak  so  strangely,  Froken!" 

"Do  I?"  and  Thelma  smiled  kindly.  "It  is  because  my 
head  aches,  I  suppose.  But  it  is  not  strange  to  say  good-bye, 
Britta!" 

Britta  caught  her  hand.  "Where  are  you  going?"  she 
persisted. 

"To  see  some  friends,"  responded  Thelma,  quietly.  "Now 
do  not  ask  any  more  questions,  Britta,  but  go  and  post  my 
letter.  I  want  father  to  get  it  as  soon  as  possible,  and  you 
will  lose  the  post  if  you  are  not  very  quick." 

Thus  reminded,  Britta  hastened  off,  determining  to  run  all 
the  way,  in  order  to  get  back  before  her  mistress  left  the 
house.  Thelma,  however,  was  too  quick  for  her.  As  soon  as 
Britta  had  gone,  she  took  the  letter  she  had  written  to  Philip, 
and  slipped  it  in  the  pages  of  a  small  volume  of  poems  he  had 
lately  been  reading.  It  was  a  new  book,  entitled  "Gladys, 
the  Singer,"  and  its  leading  motif  was  the  old,  never-exhausted 
subject  of  a  woman's  too  faithful  love,  betrayal,  and  despair. 
As  she  opened  it,  her  eyes  fell  by  chance  on  a  few  lines  of 


THELMA.  391 

hopeless  yet  musical  melancholy,  which,  like  a  sad  song  heard 
suddenly,  made  her  throat  swell  with  rising  yet  restrained 
tears.     They  ran  thus: 

"Oh!    I  can  drown,  or,  like  a  broken  lyre. 
Be  thrown  to  earth,  or  cast  upon  a  fire — 
I  can  be  made  to  feel  the  pangs  of  death, 
And  yet  be  constant  to  the  quest  of  breath — 
Our  poor  pale  trick  of  living  through  the  lies 
We  name  existence  when  that  'something'  dies 
Which  we  call  Honor.    Many  and  many  a  way 
Can  I  be  struck  or  fettered  night  and  day 
In  some  new  fashion — or  condemn'd  the  while 
To  take  for  food  the  semblance  of  a  smile — 
The  left-off  rapture  of  a  slain  caress — " 

"Ah!" — she  caught  her  breath  sobbingly,  "the  left-off  rap- 
ture of  a  slain  caress!"  Yes — that  would  be  her  portion  now 
if — if  she  stayed  to  receive  it.  But  she  would  not  stay!  She 
turned  over  the  volume  abstractedly,  scarcely  conscious  of 
the  action — and  suddenly,  as  if  the  poet-writer  of  it  had  been 
present  to  probe  her  soul  and  make  her  inmost  thoughts  pub- 
lic, she  read: 

"Because  I  am  unlov'd  of  thee  to-day. 
And  undesired  as  sea- weeds  in  the  sea!'* 

Yes! — that  was  the  "because"  of  everything  that  swayed 
her  sorrowful  spirit — "because"  she  was  "unlov'd  and  un- 
desired." 

She  hesitated  no  longer,  but  shut  the  book  with  her  farewell 
letter  inside  it,  and  put  it  back  in  its  former  place  on  the  little 
table  beside  Philip's  arm-chair.  Then  she  considered  how 
she  should  distinguish  it  by  some  mark  that  should  attract  her 
husband's  attention  toward  it.  Loosening  from  her  neck  a 
thin  gold  chain  on  which  was  suspended  a  small  diamond  cross 
with  the  names  "Philip"  and  "Thelma"  engraved  at  the  back, 
she  twisted  it  round  the  little  book,  and  left  it  so  that  the 
sparkle  of  the  jewels  should  be  seen  distinctly  on  the  cover. 
Now  was  there  anything  more  to  be  done?  She  divested  her- 
self of  all  her  valuable  ornaments,  keeping  only  her  wedding- 
ring  and  its  companion  circlet  of  brilliants — she  emptied  her 
purse  of  all  money  save  that  which  was  absolutely  necessary 
for  her  journey — then  she  put  on  her  hat,  and  began  to  fasten 
her  long  cloak  slowly,  for  her  fingers  were  icy  cold  and  trsm- 


392  THELMA. 

bled  very  strangely.  Stay— there  was  her  husband's  portrait 
—she  might  take  that,  she  thought,  with  a  sort  of  touching 
timidity.  It  was  a  miniature  on  ivory — and  had  been  painted 
expressly  for  her.  She  placed  it  inside  her  dress,  against  her 
bosom. 

"He  has  been  too  good  to  me,"  she  murmured;  "and  I  have 
been  too  happy — happier  than  I  deserved  to  be.  Excess  of 
happiness  must  always  end  in  sorrow." 

She  looked  dreamily  at  Philip's  empty  chair.  In  fancy  she 
could  see  his  familiar  figure  seated  there,  and  she  sighed  as 
she  thought  of  the  face  she  loved  so  well — the  passion  of  his 
eyes — the  tenderness  of  his  smile.  Softly  she  kissed  the  place 
where  his  head  had  rested — then  turned  resolutely  away. 

She  was  giving  up  everything,  she  thought,  to  another 
woman — but  then,  that  other  woman,  however  incredible  it 
seemed,  was  the  one  Philip  loved  best — his  own  written  words 
were  a  proof  of  this.  There  was  no  choice,  therefore,  his 
pleasure  was  her  first  consideration — everything  must  yield  to 
that,  so  she  imagined — her  own  life  was  nothing,  in  her  esti- 
mation, compared  to  his  desire.  Such  devotion  as  hers  was 
of  course  absurd — it  amounted  to  weak  self-immolation,  and 
would  certainly  be  accounted  as  supremely  foolish  by  most 
women  who  have  husbands,  and  who,  when  they  swear  to 
"obey,"  mean  to  break  the  vow  at  every  convenient  oppor- 
tunity; but  Thelma  could  not  alter  her  strange  nature,  and, 
with  her,  obedience  meant  the  extreme  letter  of  the  law  of 
utter  submission. 

Leaving  the  room  she  had  so  lately  called  her  own,  she 
passed  into  the  entrance  hall.  Morris  was  not  there,  and  she 
did  not  summon  him.  She  opened  the  street-door  for  herself, 
and  shutting  it  quietly  behind  her,  she  stood  alone  in  the  cold 
street,  where  the  fog  had  now  grown  so  dense  that  the  lamp- 
posts were  scarcely  visible.  She  walked  on  for  a  few  paces 
rather  be^\dldered  and  chilled  by  the  piercing  bitterness  of  the 
air — then,  rallying  her  forces,  she  hailed  a  passing  cab,  and 
told  the  man  to  take  her  to  Charing  Cross  Station.  She  was 
not  familiar  with  London — and  Charing  Cross  was  the  only 
great  railway  terminus  she  could  just  then  think  of. 

Arrived  there,  the  glare  of  the  electric  light,  the  jostling 
passengers  rushing  to  and  from  the  trains,  the  shouts  and 
wrangling  of  porters  and  cabmen  confused  her  not  a  little — 
and  the  bold  looks  of  admiration  bestowed  on  her  freely  by 


THELMA.  393 

the  male  loungers  sauntering  near  the  doors  of  the  restaurant 
and  hotel  made  her  shrink  and  tremble  for  shame.  She  had 
never  traveled  entirely  alone  before — and  she  began  to  be 
frightened  at  the  pandemonium  of  sights  and  noises  that 
surged  around  her.  Yet  she  never  once  thought  of  returning 
— she  never  dreamed  of  going  to  any  of  her  London  friends, 
lest  on  hearing  of  her  trouble  they  might  reproach  Philip — 
and  this  Thelma  would  not  have  endured.  For  the  same 
reason,  she  had  said  nothing  to  Britta. 

In  her  then  condition,  it  seemed  to  her  that  only  one  course 
lay  open  for  her  to  follow — and  that  was  to  go  quietly  home 
— home  to  the  Alten  Fjord.  ISTo  one  would  be  to  blame  for 
her  departure  but  herself,  she  thought — and  Philip  would  be 
free.  Thus  she  reasoned — if,  indeed,  she  reasoned  at  all. 
But  there  was  such  a  frozen  stillness  in  her  soul;  her  senses 
were  so  numbed  with  pain  that  as  yet  she  scarcely  realized 
either  what  had  happened  or  what  she  herself  was  doing. 
She  was  as  one  walking  in  her  sleep — the  awakening,  bitter 
as  death,  was  still  to  come. 

Presently  a  great  rush  of  people  began  to  stream  toward 
her  from  one  of  the  platforms,  and  trucks  of  luggage,  heralded 
by  shouts  of  "Out  of  the  way,  there!"  and  "By'r  leave!"  came 
trundling  rapidly  along — the  tidal  train  from  the  continent 
had  just  arrived. 

Dismayed  at  the  increasing  confusion  and  uproar,  Thelma 
addressed  herself  to  an  official  with  a  gold  band  round  his  hat. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  she  asked  timidly,  "where  I  shall  take 
a  ticket  for  Hull?" 

The  man  glanced  at  the  fair,  anxious  face,  and  smiled  good- 
humoredly. 

"You've  come  to  the  wrong  station,  miss,"  he  said.  "You 
want  the  Midland  line." 

"The  Midland?"     Thelma  felt  more  bewildered  than  ever. 

"Yes — the  Midland,"  he  repeated,  rather  testily.  "It's  a 
good  way  from  here — you'd  better  take  a  cab." 

She  moved  away — but  started  and  drew  herself  back  into  a 
shadowed  corner,  coloring  deeply  as  the  sound  of  a  rich, 
mellifluous  voice,  which  she  instantly  recognized,  smote  sud- 
denly on  her  ears. 

"And  as  I  before  remarked,  my  good  fellow,"  the  voice  was 
saying,  "I  am  not  a  disciple  of  the  semi-obscure.  If  a  man 
has  a  thought  which  is  worth  declaring,  let  him  declare  it 


394  THELMA. 

with  a  free  and  noble  utterance — don't  let  him  wrap  it  up  in 
multifarious  parcels  of  dreary  verbosity!  There's  too  much 
of  that  kind  of  thing  going  on  nowadays — in  England,  at  least. 
There's  a  kind  of  imitation  of  art  which  isn't  art  at  all — a 
morbid,  bilious,  bad  imitation.  You  only  get  close  to  the 
real  goddess  in  Italy.  I  wish  I  could  persuade  you  to  come 
and  pass  the  winter  with  me  there!" 

It  was  Beau  Lovelace  who  spoke,  and  he  was  talking  to 
George  Lorimer.  The  two  had  met  in  Paris — Lovelace  was 
on*  his  way  to  London,  where  a  matter  of  business  summoned 
him  for  a  few  days,  and  Lorimer,  somewhat  tired  of  the 
French  capital,  decided  to  return  with  him.  And  here  they 
were — just  arrived  at  Charing  Cross — and  they  walked  across 
the  station  arm  in  arm,  little  imagining  who  watched  them 
from  behind  the  shelter  of  one  of  the  waiting-room  doors,  with 
a  yearning  sorrow  in  her  grave  blue  eyes.  They  stopped 
almost  opposite  to  her  to  light  their  cigars;  she  saw  Lorimer's 
face  quite  distinctly,  and  heard  his  answer  to  Lovelace. 

"Well,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  about  it,  Beau!  You  know 
my  mother  always  likes  to  get  away  from  London  in  winter — 
but  whether  we  ought  to  inflict  ourselves  upon  you — you 
being  a  literary  man  too — " 

"Nonsense,  you  won't  interfere  in  the  least  with  the  flow  of 
inky  inspiration,"  laughed  Beau.  "And  as  for  your  mother, 
I'm  in  love  with  her,  as  you  are  aware!  I  admire  her  almost 
as  much  as  I  do  Lady  Bruce-Errington — and  that's  saying  a 
great  deal!  By  the  bye,  if  Phil  can  get  through  his  share  of 
this  country's  business,  he  might  do  worse  than  bring  his 
beautiful  Thelma  to  the  Lake  of  Como  for  awhile.  I'll  ask 
him!" 

And  having  lighted  their  Havanas  successfully,  they  walked 
on  and  soon  disappeared.  For  one  instant  Thelma  felt 
strongly  incUned  to  run  after  them  like  a  little  forlorn  child 
that  had  lost  its  way,  and  unburdening  herself  of  all  her 
miseries  to  the  sympathetic  George,  entreat,  with  tears,  to  be 
taken  back  to  that  husband  who  did  not  want  her  any  more. 
But  she  soon  overcame  this  emotion,  and  calling  to  mind  the 
instructions  of  the  oflicial  personage  whose  advice  she  had 
sought,  she  hurried  out  of  the  huge,  brilliantly  lighted  station, 
and  taking  a  hansom,  was  driven,  as  she  requested,  to  the 
Midland.  Here  the  rather  gloomy  aspect  of  the  place  op- 
pressed her  as  much  as  the  garish  bustle  of  Charing  Cross  had 


THELMA.  395 

bewildered  her — but  she  was  somewhat  relieved  when  she 
learned  that  a  train  for  Hull  would  start  in  ten  minutes. 
Hurrying  to  the  ticket-office,  she  found  there  before  her  a 
kindly-faced  woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  who  was  just 
taking  a  third-class  ticket  to  Hull,  and  as  she  felt  lonely  and 
timid,  Thelma  at  once  decided  to  travel  third-class  also,  and  if 
possible  in  the  same  compartment  with  this  cheerful  matron, 
who,  as  soon  as  she  had  secured  her  ticket,  walked  away  to  the 
train,  hushing  her  infant  in  her  arms  as  she  went.  Thelma 
followed  her  at  a  little  distance — and  as  soon  as  she  saw  her 
enter  a  third-class  carriage,  she  hastened  her  steps  and  entered 
also,  quite  thankful  to  have  secured  some  companionship  for 
the  long,  cold  journey.  The  woman  glanced  at  her  a  little 
curiously — it  was  strange  to  see  so  lovely  and  young  a  crea- 
ture traveling  all  alone  at  night,  and  she  asked,  kindly: 

"Be  you  goin'  fur,  miss?" 

Thelma  smiled — it  was  pleasant  to  be  spoken  to,  she 
thought. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.     "All  the  way  to  Hull." 

"  'Tis  a  cold  night  for  a  journey,"  continued  her  companion. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Thelma.  "It  must  be  cold  for 
your  little  baby." 

And  unconsciously  her  voice  softened  and  her  eyes  grew 
sad  as  she  looked  across  at  the  sleeping  infant. 

"Oh,  he's  as  warm  as  toast!"  laughed  the  mother,  cheerily. 
"He  gets  the  best  of  everything,  he  do.  It's  yourself  that's 
looking  cold,  my  dear — in  spite  of  your  warm  cloak.  Will  ye 
have  this  shawl?" 

And  she  offered  Thelma  a  homely  gray  woolen  wrap  with 
much  kindly  earnestness  of  manner. 

"I  am  quite  warm,  thank  you,"  said  Thelma,  gently,  accept- 
ing the  shawl,  however,  to  please  her  fellow-traveler.  "It  is 
a  headache  I  have  which  makes  me  look  pale.  And  I  am 
very,  very  tired!" 

Her  voice  trembled  a  little — she  sighed  and  closed  her  eyes. 
She  felt  strangely  weak  and  giddy — she  seemed  to  be  slipping 
away  from  herself  and  from  all  the  comprehension  of  life — she 
wondered  vaguely  who  and  what  she  was.  Had  her  marriage 
with  Philip  been  all  a  dream? — perhaps  she  had  never  left  the 
Alten  Fjord  after  all!  Perhaps  she  would  wake  up  presently 
and  see  the  old  farm-house  quite  unchanged,  with  the  doves 
flying  about  the  roof,  and  Sigurd  wandering  under  the  pines, 


396  THELMA. 

as  was  his  custom.  Ah,  dear  Sigurd!  Poor  Sigurd!  he  had 
loved  her,  she  thought — nay,  he  loved  her  still — he  could  not 
be  dead!  Oh,  yes — she  must  have  been  dreaming — she  felt 
certain  she  was  lying  on  her  own  little  white  bed  at  home, 
asleep;  she  would  by  and  by  open  her  eyes  and  get  up  and 
look  through  her  little  latticed  window,  and  see  the  sun  spark- 
ling on  the  water,  and  the  "Eulalie"  at  anchor  in  the  fjord — 
and  her  father  would  ask  Sir  Philip  and  his  friends  to  spend 
the  afternoon  at  the  farm-house — and  Philip  would  come  and 
stroll  with  her  through  the  garden  and  down  to  the  shore,  and 
would  talk  to  her  in  that  low,  caressing  voice  of  his — and 
though  she  loved  him  dearly,  she  must  never,  never  let  him 
know  of  it,  because  she  was  not  worthy!  She  woke  from  these 
musings  with  a  violent  start  and  a  sick  shiver  running  through 
all  her  frame,  and  looking  wildly  about  her,  saw  that  she 
was  reclining  on  some  one's  shoulder,  some  one  was  dabbling 
a  wet  handkerchief  on  her  forehead — her  hat  was  off  and  her 
cloak  was  loosened. 

"There,  my  dear,  you're  better  now!"  said  a  kindly  voice 
in  her  ear.  "Lor'!  I  thought  you  was  dead — that  I  did! 
'Twas  a  bad  faint  indeed.  And  with  the  train  jolting  along 
like  this  too!  It  was  lucky  I  had  a  flask  of  cold  water  with 
me.  Eaise  your  head  a  little — that's  it!  Poor  thing — you're 
as  white  as  a  sheet!  You're  not  fit  to  travel,  my  dear — you're 
not,  indeed." 

Thelma  raised  herself  slowly,  and  with  a  sudden  impulse 
kissed  the  good  woman's  honest,  rosy  face,  to  her  intense 
astonishment  and  pleasure. 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me!"  she  said,  tremulously.  "I  am 
so  sorry  to  have  troubled  you.  I  do  feel  ill — but  it  will  soon 
pass." 

And  she  smoothed  her  ruffled  hair,  and  sitting  up  erect,  en- 
deavored to  smile.  Her  companion  eyed  her  pale  face  com- 
passionately, and  taking  up  her  sleeping  baby  from  the  shaw! 
on  which  she  had  laid  it  while  ministering  to  Thelma's  needs, 
began  to  rock  it  slowly  to  and  fro.  Thelma,  meanwhile,  be- 
came sensible  of  the  rapid  movement  of  the  train. 

"We  have  left  London?"  she  asked  with  an  air  of  surprise. 

"Nearly  half  an  hour  ago,  my  dear."  Then,  after  a  pause, 
during  which  she  had  watched  Thelma  very  closely,  she  said: 

'I  think  you're  married,  aren't  you,  dearie?" 


((1 


THELMA.  397 

"Yes/'  Thelma  answered,  a  slight  tinge  of  color  warming 
her  fair  pale  cheeks. 

"Your  husband,  may  be,  will  meet  you  at  Hull?" 

"No — he  is  in  London,"  said  Thelma,  simply.  "I  am  going 
to  see  my  father." 

This  answer  satisfied  her  humble  friend,  who,  noticing  her 
extreme  fatigue  and  the  effort  it  cost  her  to  speak,  forbore  to 
ask  any  more  questions,  but  good-naturedly  recommended  her 
to  try  and  sleep.  She  slept  soundly  herself  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  journey;  but  Thelma  was  now  feverishly  wide 
awake,  and  her  eyeballs  ached  and  burned  as  though  there 
were  fire  behind  them. 

Gradually  her  nerves  began  to  be  wound  up  to  an  extreme 
tension  of  excitement — she  forgot  all  her  troubles  in  listening 
with  painful  intentness  to  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  train 
through  the  darkness.  The  lights  of  passing  stations  and 
signal-posts  gleamed  like  scattered  and  flying  stars — there 
was  the  frequent  shriek  of  the  engine-whistle — the  serpent- 
hiss  of  escaping  steam.  She  peered  through  the  window — all 
was  blackness;  there  seemed  to  be  no  earth,  no  sky — only  a 
sable  chaos,  through  which  the  train  flew  like  a  flame-mouthed 
demon.  Always  that  rush  and  roar!  She  began  to  feel  as  if 
she  could  stand  it  no  longer.  She  must  escape  from  that  con- 
tinuous, confusing  sound — it  maddened  her  brain.  Nothing 
was  easier;  she  would  open  the  carriage-door  and  get  out! 
Surely  she  could  manage  to  jump  off  the  step,  even  though 
the  train  was  in  motion! 

Danger!  She  smiled  at  that  idea — there  was  no  danger; 
and,  if  there  was,  it  did  not  much  matter.  Nothing  mattered 
now — now  that  she  had  lost  her  husband's  love!  She  glanced 
at  the  woman  opposite,  who  slept  profoundly — the  baby  had 
slipped  a  little  from  its  mother's  arms,  and  lay  with  its  tiny 
face  turned  toward  Thelma.  It  was  a  pretty  creature,  with 
soft  cheeks  and  a  sweet  little  mouth.  She  looked  at  it  with  a 
vague,  wild  smile.  Again,  again  that  rush  and  roar  surged 
like  a  storm  in  her  ears  and  distracted  her  mind.  She  rose 
suddenly  and  seized  the  handle  of  the  carriage  door.  Another 
instant  and  she  would  have  sprung  to  certain  death — when 
suddenly  the  sleeping  baby  woke,  and,  opening  its  mild  blue 
eyes,  gazed  at  her. 

She  met  its  glance  as  one  fascinated,  and  almost  uncon- 
sciously her  fingers  dropped  from  the  door-handle.     The  little 


398  THELMA. 

baby  still  looked  at  her  in  dream-like,  meditative  fashion — its 
mother  slept  profoundly.  She  bent  lower  and  lower  over  the 
child.  With  a  beating  heart  she  ventured  to  touch  the  small, 
pink  hand  that  lay  outside  its  wrappings  like  a  softly  curved 
rose-leaf.  With  a  sort  of  elf-like  confidence  and  contentment 
the  feeble,  wee  fingers  closed  and  curved  round  hers — and 
held  her  fast!  Weak  as  a  silken  thread,  yet  stronger  in  its 
persuasive  force  than  a  grasp  of  iron,  that  soft,  light  pressure 
controlled  and  restrained  her.  Very  gradually  the  mists  of 
her  mind  cleared — the  rattling,  thunderous  dash  of  the  train 
grew  less  dreadful,  less  monotonous,  less  painful  to  her  sense 
of  hearing.  Her  bosom  heaved  convulsively,  and  all  suddenly 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears — merciful  tears,  which  at  first  welled 
up  slowly,  and  were  hot  as  fire,  but  which  soon  began  to  fall 
faster  and  faster  in  large,  bright  drops  down  her  pale  cheeks. 
Seeing  that  its  mother  still  slept,  she  took  the  baby  gently 
into  her  own  fair  arms,  and  rocked  it  to  and  fro  with  many  a 
sobbing  murmur  of  tenderness;  the  little  thing  smiled  drowsily 
and  soon  fell  asleep  again,  all  unconscious  that  its  timely  look 
and  innocent  touch  had  saved  poor  Thelma's  life  and  reason. 

She,  meanwhile,  wept  on  softly,  till  her  tired  brain  and 
heart  were  somewhat  relieved  of  their  heavy  burden — the  en- 
tanglement of  her  thoughts  became  unraveled — and,  though 
keenly  aware  of  the  blank  desolation  of  her  life,  she  was  able 
to  raise  herself  in  spirit  to  the  Giver  of  all  love  and  consola- 
tion, and  to  pray  humbly  for  that  patience  and  resignation 
which  now  alone  could  serve  her  needs.  And  she  communed 
with  herself  and  God  in  silence,  as  the  train  rushed  on  north- 
ward. Her  fellow-traveler  woke  up  as  they  were  nearing 
their  destination,  and,  seeing  her  holding  the  baby,  was  pro- 
fuse in  her  thanks  for  this  kindness.  And  when  they  at  last 
reached  Hull,  about  half  an  hour  after  midnight,  the  good 
woman  was  exceedingly  anxious  to  know  if  she  could  be  of 
any  service — ^but  Thelma  gently,  yet  firmly,  refused  all  her 
offers  of  assistance. 

They  parted  in  the  most  friendly  manner — Thelma  kissing 
the  child,  through  whose  unconscious  means,  as  she  now 
owned  to  herself,  she  had  escaped  a  terrible  death — and  then 
she  went  directly  to  a  quiet  hotel  she  knew  of,  which  was  kept, 
by  a  native  of  Christiania,  a  man  who  had  formerly  been  ac- 
quainted with  her  father.  At  first,  when  this  worthy  individ- 
ual saw  a  lady  arrive,  alone,  young,  richly  dressed,  and  with- 


THELMA.  399 

out  luggage,  he  was  inclined  to  be  suspicious;  but  as  soon  as 
she  addressed  him  in  Norwegian,  and  told  him  who  she  was, 
he  greeted  her  with  the  utmost  deference  and  humility. 

"The  daughter  of  Jarl  Cluldmar,"  he  said,  continuing  to 
speak  in  his  own  tongue,  "honors  my  house  by  entering  it!" 

Thelma  smiled  a  little.  "The  days  of  the  great  Jarls  are 
past,  Friedhof,"  she  replied,  somewhat  sadly,  "and  my  father 
is  content  to  be  what  he  is — a  simple  bonde." 

Friedhof  shook  his  head  quite  obstinately.  "A  Jarl  is 
always  a  Jarl,"  he  declared.  "Nothing  can  alter  a  man's  birth 
and  nature.  And  the  last  time  I  saw  Valdemar  Svensen — he 
who  lives  with  your  father  now — he  was  careful  always  to 
speak  of  the  Jarl,  and  seldom  or  never  did  he  mention  him  in 
any  other  fashion.  And  now,  noble  Froken,  in  what  manner 
can  I  serve  you?" 

Thelma  told  him  briefly  that  she  was  going  to  see  her  father 
on  business,  and  that  she  was  desirous  of  starting  for  Norway 
the  next  day  as  early  as  possible. 

Friedhof  held  up  his  hands  in  amazement.  "Ah!  most 
surely  you  forget,"  he  exclaimed,  using  the  picturesque  ex- 
pressions of  his  native  speech,  "that  this  is  the  sleeping  time 
of  the  sun!  Even  at  Hardanger  Fjord  it  is  dark  and  silent 
— the  falling  streams  freeze  with  cold  on  their  way;  and  if  it 
is  so  at  the  Hardanger,  what  will  it  be  at  the  Alten?  And 
there  is  no  passenger  ship  going  to  Christiania  or  Bergen  for 
a  fortnight!" 

Thelma  clasped  her  hands  in  dismay.  "But  I  must  go!" 
she  cried,  impatiently;  "I  must,  indeed,  good  Friedhof!  I 
can  not  stay  here!  Surely,  surely  there  is  some  vessel  that 
would  take  me — some  fishing-boat — what  does  it  matter  how 
I  travel,  so  long  as  I  get  away?" 

The  landlord  looked  at  her  rather  wonderingly.  "Nay,  if 
it  is  indeed  so  urgent,  noble  Froken,"  he  replied,  "do  not 
trouble,  for  there  is  a  means  of  making  the  journey.  But  for 
you,  and  in  such  bitter  vreather,  it  seems  a  cruelty  to  speak  of. 
A  steam  cargo-boat  leaves  for  Hammerfest  and  the  North 
Cape  to-morrow — ^it  will  pass  the  Alten  Fjord.  No  doubt  you 
could  go  with  that,  if  you  so  chose — but  there  will  be  no 
warmth  or  comfort,  and  there  are  heavy  storms  on  the  North 
Sea.  I  know  the  captain;  and  'tis  true  he  takes  his  wife  with 
him,  so  there  will  be  a  woman  on  board — yet — " 


400  THELMA. 

Thelma  interrupted  him.  She  pressed  two  sovereigns  into 
his  hand. 

"Say  no  more,  Friedhof,"  she  said,  eagerly.  "You  will 
take  me  to  see  this  captain — you  will  tell  him  I  must  go  with 
him.  My  father  will  thank  you  for  this  kindness  to  me,  even 
better  than  1  can." 

"It  does  not  seem  to  me  a  kindness  at  all,"  returned  Fried- 
hof  with  frank  bluntness.  "I  would  be  loath  to  sail  the  seas 
myself  in  such  weather.  And  I  thought  you  were  so  grandly 
married,  Froken  Guldmar — though  I  forget  your  wedded 
name — how  comes  it  that  your  husband  is  not  with  you?" 

"He  is  very  busy  in  London,"  answered  Thelma.  "He 
knows  where  I  am  going.  Do  not  be  at  all  anxious,  Friedhof 
— I  shall  make  the  journey  very  well,  and  I  am  not  afraid  of 
storm  or  wild  seas." 

Friedhof  still  looked  dubious,  but  finally  yielded  to  her 
entreaties  and  agreed  to  arrange  her  passage  for  her  in  the 
morning. 

She  stayed  at  his  hotel  that  night,  and  with  the  very  early 
dawn  accompanied  him  on  board  the  ship  he  had  mentioned. 
It  was  a  small,  awkwardly  built  craft,  with  an  ugly,  crooked 
black  funnel,  out  of  which  the  steam  was  hissing  and  spitting 
with  quite  an  unnecessary  degree  of  violence — the  decks  were 
wet  and  dirty,  and  the  whole  vessel  was  pervaded  with  a  sick- 
ening smell  of  whale-oil.  The  captain,  a  gruff,  red-faced  fel- 
low, looked  rather  surlily  at  his  unexpected  passenger,  but 
was  soon  mollified  by  her  gentle  manner,  and  the  readiness 
with  which  she  paid  the  money  he  demanded  for  taking  her. 

"You  won't  be  very  warm,"  he  said,  eying  her  from  head 
to  foot — "but  I  can  lend  you  a  rug  to  sleep  in." 

Thelma  smiled  and  thanked  him.  He  called  to  his  wife, 
a  thin,  overworked-looking  creature,  who  put  up  her  head 
from  a  window  in  the  cabin  at  his  summons. 

"Here's  a  lady  going  with  us,"  he  announced.  "Look  after 
her,  will  you?"  The  woman  nodded.  Then,  once  more  ad- 
dressing himself  to  Thelma,  he  said:  "We  shall  have  nasty 
weather  and  a  wicked  sea!" 

"I  do  not  mind!"  she  answered  quietly,  and  turning  to 
Friedhof,  who  had  come  to  see  her  off,  she  shook  hands  with 
him  warmly  and  thanked  him  for  the  trouble  he  had  taken  in 
her  behalf.  The  good  landlord  bade  her  farewell  somewhat 
reluctantly — he  had  a  presentiment  that  there  was  something 


THELMA.  401 

wrong  with  the  beautiful,  golden-haired  daughter  of  the  Jarl 
—and  that  perhaps  he  ought  to  have  prevented  her  making 
this  uncomfortable  and  possibly  perilous  voyage.  But  it  was 
too  late  now — and  at  a  little  before  seven  o'clock,  the  vessel — 
which  rejoiced  in  the  name  of  the  "Black  Polly" — left  the 
harbor,  and  steamed  fussily  down  the  Humber  in  the  teeth  of 
a  sudden  storm  of  sleet  and  snow. 

Her  departure  had  no  interest  for  any  one  save  Friedhof, 
who  stood  watching  her  till  she  was  no  more  than  a  speck  on 
the  turbid  water.  He  kept  his  post,  regardless  of  the  piercing 
cold  of  the  gusty  early  morning  air,  till  she  had  entirely  dis- 
appeared, and  then  returned  to  his  own  house  and  his  daily 
business  in  a  rather  depressed  frame  of  mind.  He  was  haunted 
by  the  pale  face  and  serious  eyes  of  Thelma — she  looked  veiy 
ill,  he  thought.  He  began  to  reproach  himself — why  had  he 
been  such  a  fool  as  to  let  her  go? — why  had  he  not  detained 
her? — or,  at  any  rate,  persuaded  her  to  rest  a  few  days  in 
Hull?  He  looked  at  the  threatening  sky  and  the  falling  flakes 
of  snow  with  a  shiver. 

"What  weather!"  he  muttered,  "and  there  must  be  a  dark- 
ness as  of  death  at  the  Alten  Fjord!" 

Meanwhile  the  "Black  Polly" — unhandsome  as  she  was  in 
appearance — struggled  gallantly  with  and  overcame  an  army 
of  furious  waves  that  rose  to  greet  her  as  she  rounded  Spurn 
Head,  and  long  ere  Thelma  closed  her  weary  eyes  in  an  effort 
to  sleep,  was  plunging,  shivering  and  fighting  her  slow  way 
through  shattering  mountainous  billows  and  a  tempest  of 
sleet,  snow,  and  tossing  foam  across  the  wild  North  Sea. 


CHAPTER  X. 


What  of  her  glass  without  her?    The  blank  gray- 
There,  where  the  pool  is  blind  of  the  moon's  face — 
Her  dress  without  her?    The  tossed  empty  space 
Of  cloud-rack  whence  the  moon  has  passed  away! 

Dante  G.  Rossetti. 

"Good  God!"  cried  Errington,  impatiently.  "What's  the 
matter?     Speak  out!" 

He  had  just  arrived  home.  He  had  barely  set  foot  within 
his  own  door,  and  full  of  lover-like  ardor  and  eagerness  was 
26 


402  THELMA. 

about  to  hasten  to  his  wife's  room,  when  his  old  servant 
Morris  stood  in  his  way  trembling  and  pale-faced,  looking 
helplessly  from  him  to  Neville,  who  was  as  much  astonished 
as  Sir  Philip  at  the  man's  woe-begone  appearance. 

"Something  has  happened,"  he  stammered  faintly  at  last. 
"Her  ladyship — " 

Philip  started — his  heart  beat  quickly  and  then  seemed  to 
grow  still  with  a  horrible  sensation  of  fear. 

"What  of  her?"  he  demanded  in  low,  hoarse  tones.  "Is  she 
ill?" 

Morris  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"Sir  Philip,  my  dear  master!"  cried  the  poor  old  man,  "I  do 
not  know  whether  she  is  ill  or  well — I  can  not  guess!  My  lady 
went  out  last  night  at  a  little  before  eight  o'clock — and — and 
she  has  never  come  home  at  all!  We  can  not  tell  what  has 
become  of  her!     She  has  gone!" 

And  tears  of  distress  and  anxiety  filled  his  eyes.  Philip 
stood  mute.  He  could  not  understand  it.  All  color  fled  from 
his  face — he  seemed  as  thougli  he  had  received  a  sudden  blow 
on  the  head  which  had  stunned  him. 

"Gone!"  he  said,  mechanically.  "Thelma — ^my  wife — 
gone!     Why  should  she  go?" 

And  he  stared  fixedly  at  Neville,  who  laid  one  hand  sooth- 
ingly on  his  arm. 

"Perhaps  she  is  with  friends,"  he  suggested.  "She  may  be 
at  Lady  Winsleigh's  or  Mrs.  Lorimer's." 

"No,  no!"  interrupted  Morris.  "Britta,  who  stayed  up  all 
night  for  her,  has  since  been  to  every  house  that  my  lady 
visits,  and  no  one  has  seen  or  heard  of  her!" 

"Where  is  Britta?"  demanded  Philip,  suddenly. 

"She  has  gone  away  to  Lady  Winsleigh's,"  answered  Morris. 
"She  says  it  is  there  the  mischief  has  been  done;  I  don't 
know  what  she  means!" 

Philip  shook  olf  his  secretary's  sympathetic  touch,  and 
strode  through  the  rooms  to  Thelma's  boudoir.  He  put  aside 
the  velvet  curtains  of  the  portiere  with  a  noiseless  hand — 
somehow  he  felt  as  if,  in  spite  of  all  he  had  just  heard,  she 
must  be  there  as  usual  to  welcome  him  with  that  serene  sweet 
smile  which  was  the  sunshine  of  his  life.  The  empty,  deso- 
late air  of  the  room  smote  him  with  a  sense  of  bitter  pain — 
only  the  plaintive  warble  of  her  pet  thrush,  who  was  singing 
to  himself  most  mournfully  in  his  gilded  cage,  broke  the 


THELMA.  403 

heavy  silence.  He  looked  about  him  vacantly.  All  sorts  of 
dark  forebodings  crowded  on  his  mind.  She  must  have  met 
with  some  accident,  he  thought  with  a  shudder,  for  that  she 
would  depart  from  him  in  this  sudden  way  on  her  own  accord 
and  for  no  reason  whatsoever  seemed  to  him  incredible — 
impossible. 

"What  have  I  done  that  she  should  leave  me?"  he  asked, 
half  aloud  and  wonderingly. 

Everything  that  had  seemed  to  him  of  worth  a  few  hours 
ago  became  valueless  in  this  moment  of  time.  What  cared 
he  now  for  the  business  of  Parliament — for  distinction  or 
honors  among  men?  Nothing — less  than  nothing!  Without 
her,  the  world  was  empt}' — its  ambitions,  its  pride,  its  good, 
its  evil,  seemed  but  the  dreariest  and  most  foolish  of  trifles! 

"Not  even  a  message!"  he  thought.  "No  hint  of  where  she 
meant  to  go — no  word  of  explanation  for  me!  Surely  I  must 
be  dreaming — my  Thelma  would  never  have  deserted  me!" 

A  sort  of  sob  rose  in  his  throat,  and  he  pressed  his  hand 
strongly  over  his  eyes  to  keep  down  the  womanish  drops  that 
threatened  to  overflow  them.  After  a  minute  or  two,  he  went 
to  her  desk  and  opened  it,  thinking  that  there  perhaps  she 
might  have  left  a  note  of  farewell.  There  was  nothing — noth- 
ing save  a  little  heap  of  money  and  jewels.  These  Thelma 
had  herself  placed,  before  her  sorrowful,  silent  departure,  in 
the  corner  where  he  now  found  them. 

More  puzzled  than  ever,  he  glanced  searchingly  round  the 
room,  and  his  eyes  were  at  once  attracted  by  the  sparkle  of 
the  diamond  cross  that  lay  uppermost  on  the  cover  of  "Gladys, 
the  Singer,"  the  book  of  poems  which  was  in  its  usual  place 
on  his  own  reading-table.  In  another  second  he  seized  it — he 
unwound  the  slight  gold  chain — he  opened  the  little  volume 
tremblingly.  Yes! — there  was  a  letter  within  its  pages  ad- 
dressed to  himself.  Now,  now,  he  should  know  all!  He  tore 
it  open  with  feverish  haste — two  folded  sheets  of  paper  fell 
out — one  was  his  own  epistle  to  Violet  Vere,  and  this,  to  his 
consternation,  he  perceived  first.  Full  of  a  sudden  misgiving 
he  laid  it  aside,  and  began  to  read  Thelma's  parting  words. 

"My  Darling  Boy"— she  wrote — "A  friend  of  yours  and 
mine  brought  me  the  inclosed  letter,  and,  though,  perhaps,  it 
was_  wrong  of  me  to  read  it,  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for 
having  done  so.  I  do  not  quite  understand  it,  and  I  can  not 
bear  to  think  about  it — but  it  seems  that  you  are  tired  of  your 


404  THBLMA. 

poor  Thelma!  I  do  not  blame  you,  dearest,  for  I  am  sure  that 
in  some  way  or  other  the  fault  is  mine,  and  it  does  grieve  me 
so  much  to  think  you  are  unhappy!  I  know  that  I  am  very 
ignorant  of  many  things,  and  that  I  am  not  suited  to  this  Lon- 
don life — and  I  fear  I  shall  never  understand  its  ways.  But 
one  thing  I  can  do,  and  that  is  to  let  you  be  free,  my  Philip — 
quite  free!  And  so  I  am  going  back  to  the  Alten  Fjord,  where 
I  will  stay  till  you  want  me  again,  if  you  ever  do.  My  heart 
is  yours  and  I  shall  always  love  you  till  I  die,  and  though  it 
seems  to  me  just  now  better  that  we  should  part,  to  give  you 
greater  ease  and  pleasure,  still  you  must  always  remember 
that  I  have  no  reproaches  to  make  to  you.  I  am  only  sorry  to 
think  my  love  has  wearied  you,  for  you  have  been  all  goodness 
and  tenderness  to  me.  And  so  that  people  shall  not  talk  about 
me  or  you,  you  will  simply  say  to  them  that  I  have  gone  to 
see  my  father,  and  they  will  think  nothing  strange  in  that. 
Be  kind  to  Britta — I  have  told  her  nothing,  as  it  would  only 
make  her  miserable.  Do  not  be  angry  that  I  go  away — I  can 
not  bear  to  stay  here,  knowing  all.  And  so,  good-bye,  my 
love,  my  dearest  one!  If  you  were  to  love  many  women  more 
than  me,  I  still  should  love  you  best — I  still  would  gladly  die 
to  serve  you.  Eemember  this  always — that,  however  long  we 
may  be  parted,  and  though  all  the  world  should  come  between 
us,  I  am  and  ever  shall  be  your  faithful  wife, 

Thelma." 

The  ejaculation  that  broke  from  Errington's  lips  as  he  fin- 
ished reading  this  letter  was  more  powerful  than  reverent. 
Stinging  tears  darted  to  his  eyes — he  pressed  his  lips  passion- 
ately on  the  fair  writing. 

"My  darling — my  darling!"  he  murmured.  "What  a  miser- 
able misunderstanding!" 

Then  without  another  moment's  delay  he  rushed  into 
Neville's  studv  and  cried  abruptly: 

"Look  herel    It's  all  your  fault!" 

"My  fault!"  gasped  the  amazed  secretary. 

"Yes — your  fault!"  shouted  Errington  almost  beside  him- 
self with  grief  and  rage.  "Your  fault,  and  that  of  your 
accursed  wife,  Violet  Vere!" 

And  he  dashed  the  letter,  the  cause  of  all  the  mischief,  furi- 
ously down  on  the  table.  Neville  shrunk  and  shivered — his 
gray  head  drooped — he  stretched  out  his  hands  appealingly. 


THELMA.  405 

'Tor  God's  sake,  Sir  Philip,  tell  me  what  I've  done?"  he 
exclaimed,  piteously. 

Errington  strode  up  and  down  the  room  in  a  perfect  fever 
of  impatience. 

"By  Heaven,  it's  enough  to  drive  me  mad!"  he  burst  forth. 
"Your  wife! — your  wife! — confound  her!  When  you  first  dis- 
covered her  in  that  shameless  actress,  didn't  I  want  to  tell 
Thelma  about  it — that  very  night? — and  didn't  you  beg  me 
not  to  do  so?  Your  silly  scruples  stood  in  the  way  of  every- 
thing! I  was  a  fool  to  listen  to  you —  a  fool  to  meddle  in  your 
affairs — and — and  I  wish  to  God  I'd  never  seen  or  heard  of 
you!" 

Neville  turned  very  white,  but  remained  speechless. 

"Eead  that  letter!"  went  on  Philip,  impetuously.  "You've 
seen  it  before!  It's  the  last  one  I  wrote  to  your  wife  implor- 
ing her  to  see  you  and  speak  with  you.  Here  it  comes,  the 
devil  knows  how,  into  Thelma's  hands.  She's  quite  in  the 
dark  about  your  secret,  and  fancies  I  wrote  it  on  my  own  be- 
half! It  looks  like  it  too — looks  exactly  as  if  I  were  pleading 
for  myself  and  breaking  my  heart  over  that  detestable  stage- 
fiend — by  Jove!  it's  too  horrible!"  And  he  gave  a  gesture  of 
loathing  and  contempt. 

Neville  heard  him  in  utter  bewilderment.  "Not  possible!" 
he  muttered.    "Not  possible — it  can't  be!" 

"Can't  be?  It  is!"  shouted  Philip.  "And  if  you'd  let  me 
tell  Thelma  everything  from  the  first,  all  this  wouldn't  have 
happened.  And  you  ask  me  what  you've  done!  Done! 
You've  parted  me  from  the  sweetest,  dearest  girl  in  the 
world!" 

And  throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  he  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands,  and  a  great  uncontrollable  sob  broke  from  his  lips. 

Neville  was  in  despair.  Of  course  it  was  his  fault — he  saw 
it  all  clearly.  He  painfully  recalled  all  that  had  happened 
since  that  night  at  the  BriUiant  Theater,  when,  with  sickening 
horror,  he  had  discovered  Violet  Vere  to  be  no  other  than 
Violet  Neville — his  own  little  Violet! — as  he  had  once  called 
her — his  wife  that  he  had  lost  and  mourned  as  though  she 
were  some  pure  dead  woman,  lying  sweetly  at  rest  in  a  quiet 
grave.  He  remembered  Thelma's  shuddering  repugnance  at 
the  sight  of  her — a  repugnance  which  he  himself  had  shared — 
and  which  made  him  shrink  with  fastidious  aversion  from  the 
idea  of  confiding  to  any  one  but  Sir  Philip  the  miserable 


406  THELMA. 

secret  of  his  connection  with  her.  Sir  Philip  had  humored 
him  in  this  fancy,  little  imagining  that  any  mischief  would 
come  of  it,  and  the  reward  of  his  kindly  sympathy  was  this — 
his  name  was  compromised,  his  home  desolate,  and  his  wife 
estranged  from  him! 

In  the  first  pangs  of  the  remorse  and  sorrow  that  filled  his 
heart,  Neville  could  gladly  have  gone  out  and  drowned  him- 
self. Presently  he  began  to  think.  Was  there  not  some  one 
else  beside  himself  who  might  possibly  be  to  blame  for  all 
this  misery?  For  instance,  who  could  have  brought  or  sent 
that  letter  to  Lady  Errington?  In  her  high  station,  she,  so 
lofty,  so  pure,  so  far  above  the  rest  of  her  sex,  would  have 
been  the  last  person  to  make  any  inquiries  about  such  a 
woman  as  Violet  Vere.  How  had  it  all  happened?  He  looked 
imploringly  for  some  minutes  at  the  dejected  figure  in  the 
chair  without  daring  to  offer  a  word  of  consolation.  Presently 
he  ventured  to  remark: 

"Sir  Philip!"  he  stammered,  "it  will  soon  be  all  right — her 
ladyship  will  come  back  immediately.  I  myself  will  explain. 
It's — it's  only  a  misunderstanding — " 

Errington  moved  in  his  chair  impatiently,  but  said  nothing. 
Only  a  misunderstanding!  How  many  there  are  who  trace 
back  broken  friendships  and  severed  loves,  to  that  one  thing 
— "only  a  misunderstanding!" 

The  tenderest  relations  are  often  the  most  delicate  and  sub' 
tie,  and  "trifles  light  as  air"  may  scatter  and  utterly  destroy 
the  sensitive  gossamer  threads  extending  between  one  heart 
and  another,  as  easily  as  a  child's  passing  foot  destroys  the 
spider's  web  woven  on  the  dewy  grass  in  the  early  morning 
of  spring. 

Presently  Sir  Philip  started  up — his  lashes  were  wet  and 
his  face  was  flushed. 

"It's  no  good  sitting  here,"  he  said,  rapidly,  buttoning  on 
his  overcoat.  "I  must  go  after  her.  Let  all  the  business  go 
to  the  devil!  Write  and  say  I  won't  stand  for  Middleborough 
— I  resign  in  favor  of  the  Liberal  candidate.  I'm  off  for  Nor- 
way to-night." 

"To  Norway!"  cried  Neville.  "Has  she  gone  there?  At 
this  season — " 

He  broke  off,  for  at  that  moment  Britta  entered,  looking  the 
picture  of  misery.  Her  face  was  pale  and  drawn,  her  eyelids 
red  and  swollen,  and  when  she  saw  Sir  Philip  she  gave  him  a 


THELMA.  407 

glance  of  the  most  despairing  reproach  and  indignation.    He 
sprung  up  to  her. 

"Any  news?"  he  demanded. 

Britta  shook  her  head  mournfully,  the  tears  beginning  to 
roll  again  down  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  if  I'd  only  thought!"  she  sobbed.  "If  I'd  only  known 
what  the  dear  Froken  meant  to  do  when  she  said  good-bye 
to  me  last  night,  I  could  have  prevented  her  going — I  could — 
I  would  have  told  her  all  I  knew,  and  she  would  have  stayed 
to  see  you!  Oh,  Sir  Philip,  if  you  had  only  been  here,  that 
wicked,  wicked  Lady  Winsleigh  couldn't  have  driven  her 
away!" 

At  this  name  such  a  fury  filled  Philip's  heart  that  he  could 
barely  control  himself.    He  breathed  quickly  and  heavily. 

"What  of  her?"  he  demanded  in  a  low,  suffocated  voice. 
"What  has  Lady  Winsleigh  to  do  with  it,  Britta?" 

"Everything!"  cried  Britta,  though  as  she  glanced  at  his 
set,  stern  face  and  paling  lip  she  began  to  feel  a  little  fright- 
ened. "She  has  always  hated  the  Froken,  and  been  jealous 
of  her — always!  Her  own  maid,  Louise,  will  tell  you  so — 
Lord  Winsleigh's  man,  Briggs,  will  tell  you  so!  They've 
listened  at  the  doors,  and  they  know  all  about  it!"  Britta  made 
this  statement  with  the  most  child-like  candor.  "And  they've 
heard  all  sorts  of  wicked  things.  Lady  Winsleigh  was  always 
talking  to  Sir  Francis  Lennox  about  the  Froken — and  now 
they^ve  made  her  believe  you  do  not  care  for  her  any  more — 
they've  been  trying  to  make  her  believe  everything  bad  of 
you  for  ever  so  many  months — "  she  paused,  terrified  at  Sir 
Philip's  increasing  pallor. 

"Go  on,  Britta,"  he  said,  quietly,  though  his  voice  sounded 
strange  to  himself.  Britta  gathered  up  all  her  remaining 
stock  of  courage. 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!"  she  continued,  desperately.  "I  don't 
understand  London  people  at  all,  and  I  never  shall  understand 
them!  Everybody  seems  to  want  to  be  wicked!  Briggs  says 
that  Lady  Winsleigh  was  fond  of  you.  Sir  Philip — then,  that 
she  was  fond  of  Sir  Francis  Lennox — and  yet  she  has  a  hus- 
band of  her  own  all  the  time!  It  is  so  very  strange!"  And 
the  little  maiden's  perplexity  appeared  to  border  on  distrac- 
tion. "They  would  think  such  a  woman  quite  mad  in  Nor- 
way. But  what  is  worse  than  anything  is  that  you — you.  Sir 
Philip — oh!  I  won't  believe  it,"  and  she  stamped  her  foot  pas- 


408  THELMA. 

sionately,  "I  can't  believe  it! — and  yet  ever3^body  says  that 
you  go  to  see  a  dreadful,  painted  dancing  woman  at  the 
theater,  and  that  you  like  her  better  than  the  Froken — it  isn't 
true,  is  it?"  Here  she  peered  anxiously  at  her  master,  but  he 
was  absolutely  silent.  Neville  made  as  though  he  would  speak, 
but  a  gesture  from  Sir  Philip's  hand  restrained  him.  Britta 
went  on  rather  dispiritedly:  "Anyhow,  Briggs  has  just  told 
me  that  only  yesterday  Lady  Winsleigh  went  all  by  herself  to 
see  this  actress,  and  that  she  got  some  letter  there  which  she 
brought  to  the  Froken;"  she  recoiled  suddenly  with  a  little 
scream.    "Oh,  Sir  Philip!  where  are  you  going?" 

Errington's  hand  came  down  on  her  shoulder,  as  he  twisted 
her  lightly  out  of  his  path  and  strode  to  the  door. 

"Sir  Philip — Sir  Philip!"  cried  Neville  anxiously,  hastening 
after  him.    "Think  for  a  moment;  don't  do  anything  rash!" 

Philip  wrung  his  hand  convulsively.  "Rash!  My  good  fel- 
low, it's  a  woman  who  has  slandered  me — what  can  I  do  ?  Her 
sex  protects  her!"  He  gave  a  short,  furious  laugh.  "But,  by 
God!  were  she  a  man  I'd  shoot  her  dead!" 

And  with  these  words,  and  his  eyes  blazing  with  wrath,  he 
left  the  room.  Neville  and  Britta  confronted  each  other  in 
vague  alarm. 

"Where  will  he  go?"  half  whispered  Britta. 

"To  Winsleigh  House,  I  suppose,"  answered  Neville  in  the 
same  low  tone. 

Just  then  the  hall-door  shut  with  a  loud  bang  that  echoed 
through  the  silent  house. 

"He's  gone!"  and  as  Neville  said  this  he  sighed  and  looked 
dubiously  at  his  companion.  "How  do  you  know  all  this 
about  Lady  Winsleigh,  Britta?  It  may  not  be  true — it's  only 
servants'  gossip." 

"Only  servants'  gossip!"  exclaimed  Britta.  "And  is  that 
nothing?  Why,  in  these  grand  houses  like  Lord  Winsleigh's, 
the  servants  know  everything!  Briggs  makes  it  his  business 
to  listen  at  the  doors — he  says  it's  a  part  of  his  duty.  And 
Louise  opens  all  her  mistress'  letters — she  says  she  owes  it 
to  her  own  respectability  to  know  what  sort  of  a  lady  it  is 
she  serves.  And  she's  going  to  leave,  because  she  says  her 
ladyship  isn't  respectable!  There!  Avhat  do  you  think  of  that  ? 
And  Sir  Philip  will  find  out  a  great  deal  more  than  even  I 
have  told  him — but  oh!  I  can't  understand  about  that 
actress!"    And  she  shook  her  head  despairingly. 


THELMA.  409 

"Britta,"  said  Neville  suddenly,  "that  actress  is  my  wife!" 

Britta  started,  and  her  round  eyes  opened  wide. 

"Your  wife,  Mr.  Neville?"  she  exclaimed. 

Neville  took  off  his  spectacles  and  polished  them  nervously. 
"Yes,  Britta — my  wife!" 

She  looked  at  him  in  amazed  silence.  Neville  went  on  rub- 
bing his  glasses,  and  continued  in  rather  dreamy,  tremulous 
accents: 

"Yes,  I  lost  her  years  ago.  I  thought  she  was  dead.  But 
I  found  her  on  the  stage  af  the  Brilliant  Theater.  I — I  never 
expected — that.  I  would  rather  she  had  died!"  He  paused 
and  went  on  softly:  "When  I  married  her,  Britta,  she  was 
such  a  dear  little  girl — so  bright  and  pretty! — and  I — I  fancied 
she  was  fond  of  me!  Yes,  I  did — of  course  I  was  foolish — I've 
always  been  foolish,  I  think.  And  when — when  I  saw  her  on 
that  stage  I  felt  as  if  some  one  had  struck  me  a  hard  blow — it 
seems  as  if  I'd  been  stunned  ever  since.  And  though  she 
knows  I'm  in  London,  she  won't  see  me,  Britta — she  won't 
let  me  speak  to  her  even  for  a  moment!  It's  very  hard!  Sir 
Philip  has  tried  his  best  to  persuade  her  to  see  me — he  has 
talked  to  her  and  written  to  her  about  me;  and  that's  not  all — 
he  has  even  tried  to  make  her  come  back  to  me — but  it's  all 
no  use — and — and  that's  how  all  the  mischief  has  arisen — do 
you  see?" 

Britta  gazed  at  him  still,  with  sympathy  written  on  every 
line  of  her  face;  but  a  great  load  had  been  lifted  from  her 
mind  by  his  words — she  began  to  understand  everything. 

"I'm  so  sorry  for  you,  Mr,  Neville,"  she  said.  "But  why 
didn't  you  tell  all  this  to  the  Froken?" 

"I  couldn't!"  murmured  Neville,  desperately.  "She  was 
there  that  night  at  the  Brilliant — and  if  you  had  seen  how  she 
looked  when  she  saw  my  wife  appear  on  the  stage!  So  pained, 
so  sorry,  so  ashamed!  and  she  wanted  to  leave  the  theater  at 
once.  Of  course,  I  ought  to  have  told  her — I  wish  I  had— but 
— somehow  I  never  could."  He  paused  again.  "It's  all  my 
stupidity,  of  course — Sir  Philip  is  quite  blameless — ^he  has 
been  the  kindest,  the  best  of  friends  to  me — "  his  voice  trem- 
bled more  and  more,  and  he  could  not  go  on.  There  was  a 
silence  of  some  minutes,  during  which  Britta  appeared  ab- 
sorbed in  meditation,  and  Neville  furtively  wiped  his  eyes. 

Presently  he  spoke  again  more  cheerfully.  "It'll  soon  be 
all  right  again,  Britta!"  and  he  nodded  encouragingly.    "Sir 


410  THELMA. 

Philip  says  her  ladyship  has  gone  home  to  Norway,  and  he 
means  to  follow  her  to-night." 

Britta  nodded  gravely,  but  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"And  I  posted  her  letter  to  her  father!"  she  half  mur- 
mured. "Oh,  if  I  had  only  thought  or  guessed  why  it  was 
written!" 

"Isn't  it  rather  a  bad  time  of  the  year  for  Norway?"  pur- 
sued Neville.    "Why,  there  must  be  snow  and  darkness — " 

"Snow  and  darkness  at  the  Alten  Fjord!"  suddenly  cried 
Britta,  catching  at  his  words.  "That's  exactly  what  she  said 
to  me  the  other  evening!  Oh,  dear!  I  never  thought  of  it — 
I  never  remembered  it  was  the  dark  season!"  she  clasped  her 
hands  in  dismay.  "There  is  no  sun  at  the  Alten  Fjord  now — 
it  is  like  night,  and  the  cold  is  bitter!  And  she  is  not  strong 
— not  strong  enough  to  travel — and  there's  the  North  Sea  to 
cross.  Oh,  Mr.  Neville!"  and  she  broke  out  sobbing  afresh, 
"the  journey  will  kill  her,  I  know  it  will!  my  poor,  poor  dar- 
ling! I  must  go  after  her — I'll  go  with  Sir  Philip — I  won't  be 
left  behind!" 

"Hush,  hush,  Britta!"  said  Neville  kindly,  patting  her 
shoulder.    "Don't  cry — don't  cry!" 

But  he  was  very  near  crying  himself,  poor  man,  so  shaken 
was  he  by  the  events  of  the  morning.  And  he  could  not  help 
admitting  to  himself  the  possibility  that  so  long  and  trying  a 
journey  for  Thelma  in  her  present  condition  of  health  meant 
little  else  than  serious  illness — perhaps  death.  The  only  com- 
fort he  could  suggest  to  the  disconsolate  Britta  was  that  at 
that  time  of  the  year  it  was  very  probable  there  would  be  no 
steamer  running  to  Christiansund  or  Bergen,  and  in  that  ease 
Thelma  would  be  unable  to  leave  England,  and  would,  there- 
fore, be  overtaken  by  Sir  Philip  at  Hull. 

Meanwhile,  Sir  Philip  himself,  in  a  white  heat  of  restrained 
anger,  arrived  at  Winsleigh  House,  and  asked  to  see  Lord 
Winsleigh  immediately.  Briggs,  who  opened  the  door  to  him, 
was  a  little  startled  at  his  haggard  face  and  blazing  eyes,  even 
though  he  knew,  through  Britta,  all  about  the  sorrow  that 
had  befallen  him.  Briggs  was  not  surprised  at  Lady  Erring- 
ton's  departure — that  portion  of  his  "duty"  which  consisted  in 
listening  at  doors  had  greatly  enlightened  him  on  many  points 
— all,  save  one — the  reported  connection  between  Sir  Philip 
and  Violet  Vere.  This  seemed  to  be  really  true  according  to 
all  appearances. 


THELMA.  411 

"Which  it  puzzles  me,"  soliloquized  the  owner  of  the  shapely 
calves.  "It  do,  indeed.  Yet  I  feels  very  much  for  Sir  Philip. 
I  said  to  Flopsie  this  morning — 'Flopsie,  I  feels  for  'im!'  Yes 
— I  used  them  very  words.  Only,  of  course,  he  shouldn't  'ave 
gone  on  with  Vi.  She's  a  fine  woman  certainly — but  skittish 
— d — d  skittish!  I've  alius  made  it  a  rule  myself  to  avoid  'er 
on  principle.  Lor'!  if  I'd  kep'  company  with  'er  and  the 
likes  of  'er  I  shouldn't  be  the  man  I  am!"  And  he  smiled 
complacently. 

Lord  Winsleigh,  who  was  in  his  library  as  usual,  occupied 
with  his  duties  as  tutor  to  his  son  Ernest,  rose  to  receive  Sir 
Philip  with  an  air  of  more  than  usual  gravity. 

"I  was  about  to  write  to  you,  Errington,"  he  began,  and  then 
he  stopped  short,  touched  by  the  utter  misery  expressed  in 
Philip's  face.  He  addressed  Ernest  with  a  sort  of  nervous 
haste: 

"Eun  away,  my  boy,  to  your  own  room.  I'll  send  for  you 
again  presently." 

Ernest  obeyed.  "Now,"  said  Lord  Winsleigh,  as  soon  as 
the  lad  had  disappeared,  "tell  me  everything,  Errington.  Is  it 
true  that  your  wife  has  left  you?" 

"Left  me!"  and  Philip's  eyes  flashed  with  passionate  anger. 
"No,  Winsleigh! — she's  been  driven  away  from  me  by  the 
vilest  and  most  heartless  cruelty.  She's  been  made  to  believe 
a  scandalous  and  abominable  lie  against  me — and  she's  gone! 
I — I — by  Jove! — I  hardly  like  to  say  it  to  your  face — but — " 

"I  understand,"  a  curious  flicker  of  a  smile  shadowed  rather 
than  brightened  Lord  Winsleigh's  stern  features.  "Pray  speak 
quite  plainly.  Lady  Winsleigh  is  to  blame?  I  am  not  at  all 
surprised." 

Errington  gave  him  a  rapid  glance  of  wonder.  He  had 
always  fancied  Winsleigh  to  be  a  studious,  rather  dull  sort  of 
man,  absorbed  in  his  books  and  the  education  of  his  son — a 
man  more  than  half  blind  to  everything  that  went  on  around 
him — and,  moreover,  one  who  deliberately  shut  his  eyes  to  the 
frivolous  coquetry  of  his  wife — and  though  he  liked  him  fairly 
well,  there  had  been  a  sort  of  vague  contempt  mingled  with 
his  liking.  Now  a  new  light  was  suddenly  thrown  on  his 
character — there  was  something  in  his  look,  his  manner,  his 
very  tone  of  voice  which  proved  to  Errington  that  there  was 
a  deep  and  forcible  side  of  his  nature  of  which  his  closest 
friends  had  never  dreamed,  and  he  was  somewhat  taken  aback 


412  THELMA. 

by  the  discovery.  Seeing  that  he  still  hesitated,  Winsleigh 
laid  a  hand  encouragingly  on  his  shoulder,  and  said: 

"I  repeat — Fm  not  at  all  surprised.  Nothing  that  Lady 
Winsleigh  might  do  would  cause  me  the  slightest  astonish- 
ment. She  has  long  ceased  to  be  my  wife,  except  in  name — 
that  she  still  bears  that  name  and  holds  the  position  she  has 
in  the  world  is  simply — for  my  son's  sake!  I  do  not  wish" — 
his  voice  quivered  slightly — "I  do  not  wish  the  boy  to  despise 
his  mother.  It's  always  a  bad  beginning  for  a  young  man's 
life.  I  want  to  avoid  it  for  Ernest,  if  possible,  regardless  of 
any  personal  sacrifice."  He  paused  a  moment,  then  resumed: 
"Now,  speak  out,  Errington,  and  plainly — for  if  mischief  has 
been  done  and  I  can  repair  it  in  any  way,  you  may  be  sure  I 
will." 

Thus  persuaded.  Sir  Philip  briefly  related  the  whole  story 
of  the  misunderstanding  that  had  arisen  concerning  Neville's 
wife,  Violet  Vere — and  concluded  by  saying: 

"It  is,  of  course,  only  through  Britta  that  I've  just  heard 
about  Lady  Winsleigh's  having  anything  to  do  with  it.  Her 
information  may  not  be  correct — I  hope  it  isn't — but — " 

Lord  Winsleigh  interrupted  him.  "Come  with  me,"  he  said 
composedly.    "We'll  resolve  this  difficulty  at  once." 

He  led  the  way  out  of  the  library  across  the  hall.  Erring- 
ton  followed  him  in  silence.  He  knocked  at  the  door  of  his 
wife's  room.  In  response  to  her  "Come  in!"  they  both  en- 
tered. She  was  alone,  reclining  on  a  sofa,  reading — she 
started  up  with  a  pettish  exclamation  at  sight  of  her  husband, 
but  observing  who  it  was  that  came  with  him,  she  stood  mute, 
the  color  rushing  to  her  cheeks  with  surprise  and  something 
of  fear.  Yet  she  endeavored  to  smile,  and  returned  with  her 
usual  grace  their  somewhat  formal  salutations. 

"Clara,"  then  said  Lord  Winsleigh,  gravely,  "I  have  to  ask 
you  a  question  on  behalf  of  Sir  Philip  Errington  here — a 
question  to  which  it  is  necessary  for  you  to  give  the  plain 
answer.  Did  you,  or  did  you  not,  procure  this  letter  from 
Violet  Vere,  of  the  Brilliant  Theater — and  did  you,  or  did  you 
not,  give  it  yourself  yesterday  into  the  hands  of  Lady  Bruce- 
Errington?"  And  he  laid  the  letter  in  question,  which  Philip 
had  handed  to  him,  down  upon  the  table  before  her. 

She  looked  at  it — then  at  him — then  from  him  to  Sir  Philip, 
who  uttered  no  word — and  lightly  shrugged  her  shoulders. 


THELMA.  413 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  she  said, 
carelessly. 

Sir  Philip  turned  upon  her  indignantly. 

"Lady  Winsleigh,  you  do  know — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  stately  gesture. 

"Excuse  me,  Sir  Philip!  I  am  not  accustomed  to  be  spoken 
to  in  this  extraordinary  manner.  You  forget  yourself.  My 
husband,  I  think,  also  forgets  himself!  I  know  nothing  what- 
ever about  Violet  Vere — I'm  not  fond  of  the  society  of 
actresses.  Of  course,  I've  heard  about  your  admiration  for 
her — that  is  common  town-talk — though  my  informant  on  this 
point  was  Sir  Francis  Lennox." 

"Sir  Francis  Lennox!"  cried  Philip,  furiously.  "Thank 
God!  there's  a  man  to  deal  with!  By  Heaven,  I'll  choke  him 
with  his  own  lie!" 

Lady  Winsleigh  raised  her  eyebrows  in  well-bred  surprise. 

"Dear  me!  It  is  a  lie,  then?  Now,  I  should  have  thought 
from  all  accounts  that  it  was  so  very  likely  to  be  true!" 

Philip  turned  white  with  passion.  Her  sarcastic  smile,  her 
mocking  glance,  irritated  him  almost  beyond  endurance. 

"Permit  me  to  ask  you,  Clara,"  continued  Lord  Winsleigh, 
calmly,  "if  you — as  you  say,  know  nothing  about  Violet  Vere, 
why  did  you  go  to  the  Brilliant  Theater  yesterday  morning?" 

She  flashed  an  angry  glance  at  him. 

"Why?  To  secure  a  box  for  the  new  performance.  Is  there 
anything  wonderful  in  that?" 

Her  husband  remained  unmoved.  "May  I  see  the  voucher 
for  this  box?"  he  inquired. 

"I've  sent  it  to  some  friends,"  replied  her  ladyship,  haught- 
ily. "Since  when  have  you  decided  to  become  an  inquisitor, 
my  lord?" 

"Lady  Winsleigh,"  said  Philip  suddenly  and  eagerly,  "will 
you  swear  to  me  that  you  have  said  or  done  nothing  to  make 
my  Thelma  leave  me?" 

"Oh,  she  has  left  you,  has  she?"  and  Lady  Clara  smiled 
maliciously.  "I  thought  she  would!  Why  don't  you  ask  your 
dear  friend,  George  Lorimer,  about  her?  He  is  madly  in  love 
with  her,  as  everybody  knows — she  is  probably  the  same  with 
him!" 

"Clara,  Clara!"  exclaimed  Lord  Winsleigh  in  accents  of  deep 
reproach.    "Shame  on  you!    Shame!" 

Her  ladyship  laughed  amusedly.    "Please  don't  be  tragic!" 


414  THELMA. 

she  said;  "it's  too  ridiculous!  Sir  Philip  has  only  himself  to 
blame.  Of  course,  Thelma  knows  about  his  frequent  visits  to 
the  Brilliant  Theater,  I  told  her  all  that  Sir  Francis  said. 
Why  should  she  be  kept  in  the  dark?  I  dare  say  she  doesn't 
mind — she's  very  fond  of  Mr.  Lorimer!" 

Errington  felt  as  though  he  must  choke  with  fury.  He  for- 
got the  presence  of  Lord  Winsleigh — he  forgot  everything 
but  his  just  indignation. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  passionately.  "You  dare  to  speak  so 
— you!" 

"Yes,  I!"  she  returned  coolly,  measuring  him  with  a  glance. 
"I  dare!  What  have  you  to  say  against  me?"  She  drew  her- 
self up  imperiously. 

Then  turning  to  her  husband,  she  said:  "Have  the  good- 
ness to  take  your  excited  friend  away,  my  lord!  I  am  going 
out — I  have  a  great  many  engagements  this  morning,  and  I 
really  can  not  stop  to  discuss  this  absurd  affair  any  longer! 
It  isn't  my  fault  that  Sir  Philip's  excessive  admiration  for 
Miss  Vere  has  become  the  subject  of  gossip.  I  don't  blame 
him  for  it!  He  seems  extremely  ill-tempered  about  it;  but 
after  all,  'ce  n'  est  que  la  verite  qui  ilesse!' " 

And  she  smiled  maliciouslv. 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

For  my  mother's  sake, 
For  thine  and  hers,  O  Love!     I  pity  take 
On  all  poor  women.     Jesu's  will  be  done, 
Honor  for  all,  and  infamy  for  none. 
This  side  the  borders  of  the  burning  lake. 

Eeic  Mackey's  Love-Letters  of  a  Violinist. 

Lord  Winsleigh  did  not  move.  Sir  Philip  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  her  in  silence.  Some  occult  fascination  forced  her  to 
meet  his  glance,  and  the  utter  scorn  of  it  stung  her  proud 
heart  to  its  center.  Not  that  she  felt  much  compunction — her 
whole  soul  was  up  in  arms  against  him,  and  had  been  so  from 
the  very  day  she  was  first  told  of  his  unexpected  marriage. 
His  evident  contempt  now  irritated  her;  she  was  angrier  witli 
him  than  ever,  and  yet  she  had  a  sort  of  strange  triumph  in 


THELMA.  415 

the  petty  vengeance  she  had  designed;  she  had  destroyed  his 
happiness,  for  a  time,  at  least.  If  she  could  but  shake  his  be- 
lief in  his  wife!  she  thought,  vindictively.  To  that  end  she 
had  thrown  out  her  evil  hint  respecting  Thelma's  affection  for 
George  Lorimer,  but  the  shaft  had  been  aimed  uselessly. 
Errington  knew  too  well  the  stainless  purity  of  Thelma  to 
wrong  her  by  the  smallest  doubt,  and  he  would  have  staked 
his  life  on  the  loyalty  of  his  friend.  Presently  he  controlled 
his  anger  sufficiently  to  be  able  to  speak,  and  still  eying  her 
with  that  straight,  keen  look  of  immeasurable  disdain,  he  said 
in  cold,  deliKerate  accents: 

"Your  ladyship  is  in  error — the  actress  in  question  is  the 
wife  of  my  secretary,  Mr.  Neville.  For  years  they  have  been 
estranged.  My  visits  to  her  were  entirely  on  Neville's  behalf 
— my  letters  to  her  were  all  on  the  same  subject.  Sir  Francis 
Lennox  must  have  known  the  truth  all  along — Violet  Vere  has 
been  his  mistress  for  the  past  five  years!" 

He  uttered  the  concluding  words  with  intense  bitterness. 
A  strange,  bewildered  horror  passed  over  Lady  Winsleigh's 
face. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said,  rather  faintly. 

"Believe  it  or  not,  it  is  true!"  he  replied,  curtly.  "Ask  the 
manager  of  the  Brilliant,  if  you  doubt  me.  Winsleigh,  it's  no 
use  my  stopping  here  any  longer.  As  her  ladyship  refuses  to 
give  any  explanation — " 

"Wait  a  moment,  Errington,"  interposed  Lord  Winsleigh, 
in  his  coldest  but  most  methodical  manner.  "Her  ladyship 
refuses — but  I  do  not  refuse!  Her  ladyship  will  not  speak — 
she  allows  her  husband  to  speak  for  her.  Therefore,"  and  he 
smiled  at  his  astonished  wife  somewhat  sardonically,  "I  may 
tell  you  at  once  that  her  ladyship  admits  to  having  purchased 
from  Violet  Vere  for  the  sum  of  twenty  pounds  the  letter 
which  she  afterward  took  with  her  own  hands  to  your  wife." 
Lady  Winsleigh  uttered  an  angry  exclamation.  "Don't  inter- 
rupt me,  Clara,  if  you  please,"  he  said,  with  an  icy  smile. 
"We  have  so  many  sympathies  in  common  that  I'm  sure  I 
shall  be  able  to  explain  your  unspoken  meanings  quite  clearly." 
He  went  on,  addressing  himself  to  Errington,  who  stood  ut- 
terly amazed.  "Her  ladyship  desires  me  to  assure  you  that 
her  only  excuse  for  her  action  in  this  matter  is,  that  she  fully 
believed  the  reports  her  friend.  Sir  Francis  Lennox,  gave  her 
concerning  your  supposed  intimacy  with  the  actress  in  ques- 


416  THELMA. 

tion — and  that,  believing  it,  she  made  use  of  it  as  much  as 
possible  for  the  purpose  of  destroying  your  wife's  peace  of 
mind  and  confidence  in  you.  Her  object  was  most  purely 
feminine — love  of  mischief,  and  the  gratification  of  private 
spite!  There's  nothing  like  frankness!"  and  Lord  Winsleigh's 
face  was  a  positive  study  as  he  spoke.  "You  see" — he  made 
a  slight  gesture  toward  his  wife,  who  stood  speechless,  and  so 
pale  that  her  very  lips  were  colorless — "her  ladyship  is  not  in 
a  position  to  deny  what  I  have  said.    Excuse  her  silence!" 

And  again  he  smiled — that  smile  as  glitteringly  chill  as  a 
gleam  of  light  on  the  edge  of  a  sword.  Lady  Winsleigh  raised 
her  head,  and  her  eyes  met  his  with  a  dark  expression  of  the 
uttermost  anger. 

"Spy!"  she  hissed  between  her  teeth — then  without  further 
word  or  gesture,  she  swept  haughtily  away  into  her  dressing- 
room,  which  adjoined  the  boudoir,  and  closed  the  door  of 
communication,  thus  leaving  the  two  men  alone  together. 

Errington  felt  himself  to  be  in  a  most  painful  and  awkward 
position.  If  there  was  anything  he  more  than  disliked,  it  was 
a  scene — particularly  of  a  domestic  nature.  And  he  had  just 
had  a  glimpse  into  Lord  and  Lady  Winsleigh's  married  life, 
which  to  him  was  decidedly  unpleasant.  He  could  not  under- 
stand how  Lord  Winsleigh  had  become  cognizant  of  all  he 
had  so  frankly  stated — and  then,  why  had  he  not  told  him 
everything  at  first,  without  waiting  to  declare  it  in  his  wife's 
presence?  Unless,  indeed,  he  wished  to  shame  her?  There 
was  evidently  something  in  the  man's  disposition  and  charac- 
ter that  he,  Philip,  could  not  as  yet  comprehend — something 
that  certainly  puzzled  him,  and  filled  him  with  vague  uneasi- 
ness. 

"Winsleigh,  I'm  awfully  sorry  this  has  happened,"  he  began 
hurriedly,  holding  out  his  hand. 

Lord  Winsleigh  grasped  it  cordially.  "My  dear  fellow,  so 
am  I!  Heartily  sorry!  I  have  to  be  sorry  for  a  good  many 
things  rather  often.  But  I'm  specially  grieved  to  think  that 
your  beautiful  and  innocent  young  wife  is  the  victim  in  this 
case.  Unfortunately,  I  was  told  nothing  till  this  morning, 
otherwise  I  might  possibly  have  prevented  all  your  unhappi- 
ness.  But  I  trust  it  won't  be  of  long  duration.  Here's  this 
letter,"  he  returned  it  as  he  spoke,  "which  in  more  than  one 
way  has  cost  so  large  a  price.  Possibly  her  ladyship  may  now 
regret  her  ill-gotten  purchase." 


THELMA.  417 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Errington,  curiously,  "but  how  did  you 
know?" 

"The  information  was  pressed  upon  me  very  much,"  replied 
Lord  Winsleigh,  evasively,  "and  from  such  a  source  that  up  to 
the  last  moment  I  almost  refused  to  believe  it."  He  paused,  and 
then  went  on  with  a  forced  smile:  "Suppose  we  don't  talk 
any  more  about  it,  Errington?  The  subject's  rather  painful 
to  me.  Only  allow  me  to  ask  your  pardon  for  my  wife's  share 
in  the  mischief!" 

Something  in  his  manner  of  speaking  affected  Sir  Phillip. 

"Upon  my  soul,  Winsleigh,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden 
fervor,  "I  fancy  you're  a  man  greatly  wronged!" 

Lord  Winsleigh  smiled  slightly.  "You  only  fancy?"  he 
said,  quietly.  "Well — my  good  friend,  we  all  have  our 
troubles — I  dare  say  mine  are  no  greater  than  those  of  many 
better  men."  He  stopped  short,  then  asked  abruptly:  "I 
suppose  you'll  see  Lennox?" 

Errington  set  his  teeth  hard.  "I  shall — at  once!"  he  replied. 
"And  I  shall  probably  thrash  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life!" 

"That's  right!  I  shan't  be  sorry!"  and  Lord  Winsleigh's 
hand  clinched  almost  unconsciously.  "I  hope  you  understand, 
Errington,  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  son,  I  should  have 
shot  that  fellow  long  ago.  I  dare  say  you  wonder,  and  some 
others,  too,  why  I  haven't  done  it.  But  Ernest — poor  little 
chap! — he  would  have  heard  of  it — and  the  reason  of  it — his 
young  life  is  involved  in  mine — why  should  I  bequeath  him  a 
dishonored  mother's  name?  There — for  Heaven's  sake,  don't 
let  me  make  a  fool  of  myself!"  and  he  fiercely  dashed  his 
hand  across  his  eyes.  "A  duel  or  a  divorce,  or  a  horse-whipping 
— they  all  come  to  pretty  much  the  same  thing — all  involve 
public  scandal  for  the  name  of  the  woman,  who  may  be  un- 
happily concerned — and  scandal  clings,  like  the  stain  on  Lady 
Macbeth's  hand.  In  your  case  you  can  act — your  wife  is 
above  a  shadow  of  suspicion — but  I — oh,  my  God!  how  much 
women  have  to  answer  for  in  the  miseries  of  this  world!" 

Errington  said  nothing.  Pity  and  respect  for  the  man  be- 
fore him  held  him  silent.  He  was  one  of  the  martyrs  of 
modern  social  life — a  man  who  evidently  knew  himself  to  be 
dishonored  by  his  wife — and  who  yet,  for  the  sake  of  his  son, 
submitted  to  be  daily  broken  on  the  wheel  of  private  torture 
rather  than  let  the  boy  grow  up  to  despise  and  slight  his 
mother.    Whether  he  were  judged  as  wise  or  weak  in  his  be- 

27 


418  THELMA. 

havior  there  was  surely  something  noble  about  him — some- 
thing unselfish  and  heroic  that  deserved  recognition.  Pres- 
ently Lord  Winsleigh  continued,  in  calmer  tones: 

"I've  been  talking  too  much  about  myself,  Errington,  I 
fear — forgive  it!  Sometimes  I've  thought  you  misunderstood 
me — " 

"I  never  shall  again!"  declared  Philip,  earnestly. 

Lord  Winsleigh  met  his  look  of  sympathy  with  one  of 
gratitude. 

"Thanks!"  he  said,  briefly;  and  with  this  they  shook  hands 
again  heartily,  and  parted.  Lord  Winsleigh  saw  his  visitor 
to  the  door — and  then  at  once  returned  to  his  wife's  apart- 
ments. She  was  still  absent  from  the  boudoir — he  therefore 
entered  her  dressing-room  without  ceremony. 

There  he  found  her — alone,  kneeling  on  the  floor,  her  head 
buried  in  an  arm-chair — and  her  whole  frame  shaken  with 
convulsive  sobs.  He  looked  down  upon  her  with  a  strange, 
wistful  pain  in  his  eyes — pain  mingled  with  compassion. 

"Clara!"  he  said  gently.  She  started  and  sprung  up — con- 
fronting him  with  flushed  cheeks  and  wet  eyes. 

"You  here?"  she  exclaimed,  angrily.  "I  wonder  you  dare 
to — "  she  broke  off,  confused  by  his  keen,  direct  glance. 

"It  is  a  matter  for  wonder,"  he  said,  quietly.  "It's  the 
strangest  thing  in  the  world  that  I — your  husband — should 
venture  to  intrude  myself  into  your  presence!  Nothing  could 
be  more  out  of  the  common.  But  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you — something  which  must  be  said  sooner  or  later — and  I 
may  as  well  speak  now." 

He  paused — she  was  silent,  looking  at  him  in  a  sort  of  sud- 
den fear. 

"Sit  down,"  he  continued  in  the  same  even  tones.  "You 
must  have  a  little  patience  with  me — I'll  endeavor  to  be  as 
brief  as  possible." 

Mechanically  she  obeyed  him  and  sunk  into  a  low  fauteuil. 
She  began  playing  with  the  trinkets  on  her  silver  chatelaine 
and  endeavored  to  feign  the  most  absolute  unconcern,  but  her 
heart  beat  quickly — she  could  not  imagine  what  was  coming 
next — her  husband's  manner  and  tone  were  quite  new  to  her. 

"You  accused  me  just  now,"  he  went  on,  "of  being  a  spy. 
I  have  never  condescended  to  act  such  a  part  toward  you, 
Clara.  When  I  first  married  you  I  trusted  you  with  my  life, 
my  honor,  and  my  name,  and  though  you  have  betrayed  all 


THELMA.  419 

three" — she  moved  restlessly  as  his  calm  gaze  remained  fixed 
on  her — "I  repeat — though  you  have  betrayed  all  three,  I  have 
deliberately  shut  my  eyes  to  the  ruin  of  my  hopes,  in  a  loyal 
endeavor  to  shield  you  from  the  world's  calumny.  Regarding 
the  unhappiness  you  have  caused  the  Erringtons — your  own 
maid,  Louise  Renaud  (who  has  given  you  notice  of  her  inten- 
tion to  leave  you),  told  me  all  she  knew  of  your  share  in  what 
I  may  call  positive  cruelty  toward  a  happy  and  innocent 
woman  who  has  never  injured  you,  and  whose  friend  you  de- 
clared yourself  to  be — " 

"You  believe  the  lies  of  a  servant?"  suddenly  cried  Lady 
Winsleigh,  wrathfully. 

"Have  not  you  believed  the  lies  of  Sir  Francis  Lennox,  who 
is  less  honest  than  a  servant?"  asked  her  husband,  his  grave 
voice  deepening  with  a  thrill  of  passion.  "And  haven't  you 
reported  them  everywhere  as  truths?  But  as  regards  your 
maid — I  doubted  her  story  altogether.  She  assured  me  she 
knew  what  money  you  took  out  with  you  yesterday,  and  what 
you  returned  with — and  as  the  only  place  you  visited  in  the 
morning  was  the  Brilliant  Theater — after  having  received  a 
telegram  from  Lennox,  which  she  saw — it  was  easy  for  her  to 
put  two  and  two  together,  especially  as  she  noticed  you  read- 
ing the  letter  you  had  purchased;  moreover" — he  paused — 
"she  has  heard  certain  conversations  between  you  and  Sir 
Francis,  notably  one  that  took  place  at  the  garden-party  in 
summer  at  Errington  Manor.  Spy,  you  say?  your  detective 
has  been  paid  by  you — fed  and  kept  about  your  own  person — 
to  minister  to  your  vanity  and  to  flatter  your  pride — that  she 
has  turned  informer  against  you  is  not  surprising.  Be  thank- 
ful that  her  information  has  fallen  into  no  more  malignant 
hands  than  mine!" 

Again  he  paused — she  was  still  silent — but  her  lips  trembled 
nervously. 

"And  yet  I  was  loath  to  believe  everything,"  he  resumed, 
half  sadly — "till  Errington  came  and  showed  me  that  letter 
and  told  me  the  whole  story  of  his  misery.  Even  then  I 
thought  I  would  give  you  one  more  chance — that's  why  I 
brought  him  to  you  and  asked  you  the  question  before  him. 
One  look  at  your  face  told  me  you  were  guilty,  though  you 
denied  it.  I  should  have  been  better  pleased  had  you  con- 
fessed it!  But  why  talk  about  it  any  longer? — the  mischief  is 
done — I  trust  it  is  not  irreparable.    I  certainly  consider  that 


420  THELMA. 

before  troubling  that  poor  girl's  happiness  you  should  have 
taken  the  precaution  to  inquire  a  little  further  into  the  truth 
of  the  report  you  heard  from  Sir  Francis  Lennox — he  is  not  a 
reliable  authority  on  any  question  whatsoever.  You  may  have 
thought  him  so" — he  stopped  short  and  regarded  her  with 
sorrowful  sternness — "I  say,  Clara,  you  may  have  thought 
him  so,  once — but  now?  Are  you  proud  to  have  shared  his 
affections  with — Violet  Yere?" 

She  uttered  a  sharp  cry  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
— an  action  which  appeared  to  smite  her  husband  to  the  heart 
— for  his  voice  trembled  with  deep  feeling  when  he  next  spoke. 

"Ah,  best  hide  it,  Clara!"  he  said  passionately.  "Hide  that 
fair  face  I  loved  so  well — hide  those  eyes  in  which  I  dreamed 
of  finding  my  life's  sunshine!  Clara,  Clara!  What  can  I  say 
to  you,  fallen  rose  of  womanhood?  How  can  I — "  he  suddenly 
bent  over  her  as  though  to  caress  her,  then  drew  back  with 
a  quick,  agonized  sigh.  "You  thought  me  blind,  Clara!"  he 
went  on  in  low  tones,  '^T)lind  to  my  own  dishonor — blind  to 
your  faithlessness.  I  tell  you  if  you  had  taken  my  heart  be- 
tween your  hands  and  wrung  the  blood  out  of  it  drop  by  drop 
I  could  not  have  suffered  more  than  I  have  done!  Why  have 
I  been  silent  so  long? — no  matter  why — but  now,  now,  Clara — 
this  life  of  ours  must  end!" 

She  shuddered  away  from  him. 

"End  it  then!"  she  muttered  in  a  choked  voice,  'TTou  can 
do  as  you  like — you  can  divorce  me." 

"Yes,"  said  Lord  Winsleigh,  musingly,  "I  can  divorce  you! 
There  will  be  no  defense  possible — as  you  know.  If  witnesses 
are  needed,  they  are  to  be  had  in  the  persons  of  our  own 
domestics.  The  co-respondent  in  the  case  will  not  refute  the 
charge  against  him — and  I,  the  plaintiff,  must  win  my  just 
cause.  Do  you  realize  it  all,  Clara?  You,  the  well-known 
leader  of  a  large  social  circle — you,  the  proud  beauty  and 
envied  lady  of  rank  and  fashion — you  will  be  made  a  subject 
for  the  coarse  jests  of  lawyers — the  very  judge  on  the  bench 
will  probably  play  off  his  stale  witticisms  at  your  expense — 
your  dearest  friends  will  tear  your  name  to  shreds — the  news- 
papers will  reek  of  your  doings — and  honest  housemaids, 
reading  of  your  fall  from  your  high  estat''^  will  thank  God  that 
their  souls  and  bodies  are  more  chaste  than  yours!  And  last, 
not  least,  think  when  old  age  creeps  on  and  your  beauty 
withers,  think  of  your  son  grown  to  manhood — the  sole  heir 


THELMA.  421 

to  my  name — think  of  him  as  having  but  one  thing  to  blush 
for — the  memory  of  his  dishonored  mother!" 

"Cruel — cruel!"  she  cried,  endeavoring  to  check  her  sobs, 
and  withdrawing  her  hands  from  her  face.  "Why  do  you  say 
such  things  to  me?    Why  did  you  marry  me?" 

He  caught  her  hands  and  held  them  in  a  fast  grip, 

"Why?  Because  I  loved  you,  Clara — loved  you  with  all  the 
tenderness  of  a  strong  man's  heart!  When  I  first  saw  you, 
you  seemed  to  me  the  very  incarnation  of  maiden  purity  and 
loveliness!  The  days  of  our  courtship — the  first  few  months 
of  our  marriage — what  they  were  to  you,  I  know  not — to  me 
they  were  supreme  happiness.  When  our  boy  was  born,  my 
adoration,  my  reverence  for  you  increased — you  were  so  sacred 
in  my  eyes  that  I  could  have  knelt  and  asked  a  benediction 
from  these  little  hands" — here  he  gently  loosened  them  from 
his  clasp,  "Then  came  the  change — what  changed  you,  I 
can  not  imagine — it  has  always  seemed  to  me  unnatural, 
monstrous,  incredible!  There  was  no  falling  away  in  my 
affection,  that  I  can  swear!  My  curse  upon  the  man  who 
turned  your  heart  from  mine!  So  rightful  and  deep  a  curse 
is  it  that  I  feel  it  must  some  day  strike  home,"  He  paused 
and  seemed  to  reflect,  "Who  is  there  more  vile,  more  traitor- 
ous than  he?"  he  went  on.  "Has  he  not  tried  to  influence 
Errington's  wife  against  her  husband?  For  what  base  pur- 
pose? But,  Clara,  he  is  powerless  against  her  purity  and 
innocence;  what,  in  the  name  of  God,  gave  him  power  over 
you?" 

She  drooped  her  head,  and  the  hot  blood  rushed  to  her  face. 

"You've  said  enough!"  she  murmured,  sullenly.  "If  you 
have  decided  on  a  divorce,  pray  carry  out  your  intention  with 
the  least  possible  delay.  I  can  not  talk  any  more!  I — I  am 
tired!" 

"Clara,"  said  her  husband,  solemnly,  with  a  strange  light 
in  his  eyes,  "I  would  rather  kill  you  than  divorce  you!" 

There  was  something  so  terribly  earnest  in  his  tone  that  her 
heart  beat  fast  with  fear. 

"Kill  me? — kill  me?"  she  gasped,  with  white  lips. 

"Yes!"  he  repeated,  "kill  you — as  a  Frenchman  or  an 
Italian  would — and  take  the  consequences.  Yes — though  an 
Englishman,  I  would  rather  do  this  than  drag  your  frail  poor 
womanhood  through  the  mire  of  public  scandal!  I  have 
perhaps,  a  strange  nature,  but  such  as  I  am,  I  am.    There  are 


422  THELMA. 

too  many  of  our  high-born  famihes  already  flaunting  their 
immorality  and  low  licentiousness  in  the  face  of  the  mocking, 
grinning  populace.    I  for  one  could  never  make  up  my  mind 
to  fling  the  honor  of  my  son's  mother  to  them,  as  though  it 
were  a  bone  for  the  dogs  to  fight  over.    No — I  have  another 
proposition  to  make  to  you — ?'  He  stopped  short.    She  stared 
at  him  wonderingly.     He  resumed  in  methodical,  unmoved, 
business-like  tones:    "I  propose,  Clara,  simply — to  leave  you! 
I'll  take  the  boy  and  absent  myself  from  this  country,  so  as 
to  give  you  perfect  freedom  and  save  you  all  trouble.    There'll 
be  no  possibility  for  scandal,  for  I  will  keep  you  cognizant  of 
my  movements,  and  should  you  require  my  presence  at  any 
time  for  the  sake  of  appearances,  or    to    shield  you  from 
calumny,  you  may  rely  on  my  returning  to  you  at  once,  with- 
out delay.    Ernest  will  gain  many  advantages  by  travel — his 
education  is  quite  a  sufficient  motive  for  my  departure,  my 
interest  in  his  young  life  being  well  known  to  all  our  circle. 
Moreover,  with  me — under  my  surveillance — he  need  never 
know  anytliing  against — against  you.     I  have  always  taught 
him  to  honor  and  obey  you  in  his  heart."     Lord  Winsleigh 
paused  a  moment — then  went  on  somewhat  musingly:  ^'When 
he  was  quite  little,  he  used  to  wonder  why  you  didn't  love 
him — it  was  hard  for  me  to  hear  him  say  that,  sometimes. 
But  I  always  told  him  that  you  did  love  him — but  that  you 
had  so  many  visits  to  make  and  so  many  friends  to  entertain 
that  you  had  no  time  to  play  with  him.    I  don't  think  he  quite 
understood — but  still  I  did  my  best!"    He  was  silent.     She 
had  hidden  her  face  again  in  her  hands,  and  he  heard  a  sound 
of  smothered  sobbing.    "I  think,"  he  continued,  calmly,  "that 
he  has  a  great  reverence  for  you  in  his  young  heart — a  feeling 
which  partakes,  perhaps,  more  of  fear  than  love — still  it  is 
better  than — disdain — or — or  disrespect.    I  shall  always  teacli 
him  to  esteem  you  highly — but  I  think,  as  matters  stand — if  I 
reheve  you  of  all  your  responsibilities  to  husband  and  son — 
you — Clara! — pray  don't  distress  yourself — there's  no  occasion 
for  this,  Clara!" 

For  on  a  sudden  impulse  she  had  flung  herself  at  his  feet  in 
an  irrepressible  storm  of  passionate  weeping. 

"Kill  me,  Harry!"  she  sobbed  wildly,  clinging  to  him. 
"Kill  me!  don't  speak  to  me  like  this! — don't  leave  me!  Oh, 
my  God!  don't,  don't  despise  me  so  utterly!  Hate  me — curse 
me — strike  me — do  anything,  but  don't  leave  me  as  if  I  were 


THELMA.  423 

some  low  thing,  unfit  fo'-  your  touch — I  know  I  am,  but  oh, 
Harry — !"  She  clung  to  him  more  closely.  "If  you  leave  me 
I  will  not  live — I  can  not!  Have  you  no  pity?  Why  would 
you  throw  me  back  alone — all,  all  alone,  to  die  of  your  con- 
tempt and  my  shame!" 

And  she  bowed  her  head  in  an  agony  of  tears. 

He  looked  down  upon  her  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"Your  shame!"  he  murmured.    "My  wife — " 

Then  he  raised  her  in  his  arms  and  drew  her  with  a  strange 
hesitation  of  touch  to  his  breast,  as  though  she  were  some  sick 
or  wounded  child,  and  watched  her  as  she  lay  there  weeping, 
her  face  hidden,  her  whole  frame  trembling  in  his  embrace. 

"Poor  soul!"  he  whispered,  more  to  himself  than  to  her. 
"Poor,  frail  woman!  Hush,  hush,  Clara!  The  past  is  past! 
I'll  make  you  no  more  reproaches.  I — I  can't  hurt  you,  be- 
cause I  once  so  loved  you — but  now — now — what  is  there  left 
for  me  to  do  but  to  leave  you?  You'll  be  happier  so — you'll 
have  perfect  liberty — you  needn't  even  think  of  me — unless, 
perhaps  as  one  dead  and  buried  long  ago — " 

She  raised  herself  in  his  arms  and  looked  at  him  piteously. 

"Won't  you  give  me  a  chance?"  she  sobbed.  "Not  one?  If 
I  had  but  known  you  better — if  I  had  understood — oh,  I've 
been  vile,  wicked,  deceitful — but  I'm  not  happy,  Harry — I've 
never  been  happy  since  I  wronged  you!  Won't  you  give  me 
one  little  hope  that  I  may  win  your  love  again — no,  not  your 
love — but  your  pity?     Oh,  Harry,  have  I  lost  all — all — " 

Her  voice  broke — she  could  say  no  more. 

He  stroked  her  hair  gently.  "You  speak  on  impulse  just 
now,  Clara,"  he  said  gravely  yet  tenderly.  "You  can't  know 
your  own  strength  or  weakness.  God  forbid  that  I  should 
judge  you  harshly!  As  you  wish  it,  I  will  not  leave  you  yet. 
I'll  wait.  Whether  we  part  or  remain  together  shall  be  de- 
cided by  your  own  actions,  your  own  looks,  your  own  words. 
You  understand,  Clara?  You  know  my  feelings.  I'm  content 
for  the  present  to  place  my  fate  in  your  hands."  He  smiled 
rather  sadly.  "But  for  love,  Clara,  I  fear  nothing  can  be  done 
to  warm  to  life  this  poor  perished  love  of  ours.  We  can,  per- 
haps, take  hands  and  watch  its  corpse  patiently  together  and 
say  how  sorry  we  are  it  is  dead — such  penitence  comes  always 
too  late!" 

He  sighed,  and  put  her  gently  away  from  him. 
She  turned  up  her  flushed,  tear-stained  face  to  his. 

"Will  you  kiss  me,  Harry?"  she  asked,  tremblingly. 


424  THBLMA. 

He  met  her  eyes,  and  an  exclamation  that  was  almost  a 
groan  broke  from  his  lips.  A  shudder  passed  through  his 
frame. 

"I  can't,  Clara!  I  can't!  God  forgive  me!  Not  yet!"  And 
with  that  he  bowed  his  head  and  left  her. 

She  listened  to  the  echo  of  his  firm  footsteps  dying  away, 
and  creeping  guiltily  to  a  side  door  she  opened  it,  and  watched 
yearningly  his  retreating  figure  till  it  had  disappeared. 

"Why  did  I  never  love  him  till  now?"  she  murmured,  sob- 
bingly.  "Now,  when  he  despises  me — when  he  will  not  even 
kiss  me?"  She  leaned  against  the  half-open  door  in  an  attitude 
of  utter  dejection,  not  caring  to  move,  listening  intently  with 
a  vague  hope  of  hearing  her  husband's  returning  tread.  A 
lighter  step  than  his,  however,  came  suddenly  along  from  the 
other  side  of  the  passage  and  startled  her  a  little — it  was 
Ernest,  looking  the  picture  of  boyish  health  and  beauty.  He 
was  just  going  out  for  his  usual  ride — he  lifted  his  cap  with 
pretty  courtesy  as  he  saw  her,  and  said: 

"Good  morning,  mother!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  new  interest — ^how  handsome  the 
lad  was! — how  fresh  his  face! — how  joyously  clear  those  bright 
blue  eyes  of  his!  He,  on  his  part,  was  moved  by  a  novel  sen- 
sation too — his  mother — his  proud,  beautiful,  careless  mother 
had  been  crying — he  saw  that  at  a  glance,  and  his  young  heart 
beat  faster  when  she  laid  her  white  hand,  sparkling  all  over 
with  rings,  on  his  arm  and  drew  him  closer  to  her. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  park?"  she  asked,  gently. 

"Yes."  Then  recollecting  his  training  in  politeness  and 
obedience,  he  added  instantly:    "Unless  you  want  me." 

She  smiled  faintly.  "I  never  do  want  you — do  I,  Ernest?" 
she  asked,  half  sadly.  "I  never  want  my  boy  at  all."  Her 
voice  quivered — and  Ernest  grew  more  and  more  astonished. 

"If  you  do,  I'll  stay,"  he  said  stoutly,  filled  with  a  chivalrous 
desire  to  console  this  so  suddenly  tender  mother  of  his,  what- 
ever her  griefs  might  be.  Her  eyes  filled  again,  but  she  tried 
to  laugh. 

"No,  dear,  not  now;  run  along  and  enjoy  yourself.  Come 
to  me  when  you  return — I  shall  be  at  home  all  day.  And — 
stop!    Ernest — won't  you  kiss  me?" 

The  boy  opened  his  eyes  wide  in  respectful  wonderment, 
and  his  cheeks  flushed  with  surprise  and  pleasure. 

"Why,  mother — of  course!"    And  his  fresh,  sweet  lips  closed 


THELMA.  425 

on  hers  with  a  frank  and  unaffected  heartiness.  She  held  him 
fast  for  a  moment  and  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"Tell  your  father  you  kissed  me — will  you?"  she  said. 
"Don't  forget!" 

And  with  that  she  waved  her  hand  to  him,  and  retreated 
again  to  her  own  apartment.  The  boy  went  on  his  way  some- 
what puzzled  and  bewildered.  Did  his  mother  love  him,  after 
all?  If  so,  he  thought — how  glad  he  was! — how  very  glad! 
and  what  a  pity  he  had  not  known  it  before! 


CHAPTEE  XII. 

I  heed  not  custom,  creed,  nor  law; 

I  care  for  nothing  that  ever  I   saw — 

I  terribly  laugh  with  an  oath  and  sneer. 

When  I  think  that  the  hour  of  Death  draws  near! 

W.  Winter. 

Errington's  first  idea,  on  leaving  Winsleigh  House,  was  to 
seek  an  interview  with  Sir  Francis  Lennox,  and  demand  an 
explanation.  He  could  not  understand  the  man's  motive  for 
such  detestable  treachery  and  falsehood.  His  anger  rose  to  a 
white  heat  as  he  thought  of  it,  and  he  determined  to  "have  it 
out"  with  him  whatever  the  consequences  might  be.  "No 
apology  will  serve  his  turn,"  he  muttered.  "The  scoundrel! 
He  has  lied  deliberately,  and,  by  Jove,  he  shall  pay  for  it!" 

And  he  started  off  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  Piccadilly,  but 
on  the  way  he  suddenly  remembered  that  he  had  no  weapon 
with  him,  not  even  a  cane  wherewith  to  carry  out  his  intention 
of  thrashing  Sir  Francis,  and  calling  to  mind  a  certain  heavy 
horsewhip  that  hung  over  the  mantel-piece  in  his  own  room, 
he  hailed  a  hansom,  and  was  driven  back  to  his  house  in  order 
to  provide  himself  with  that  implement  of  castigation  before 
proceeding  further.  On  arriving  at  the  door,  to  his  surprise 
he  found  Lorimer,.  who  was  just  about  to  ring  the  bell. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  in  Paris?"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  came  back  last  night,"  George  began,  when  Morris 
opened  the  door,  and  Errington,  taking  his  friend  by  the  arm, 
hurried  him  into  the  house.  In  five  minutes  he  had  unbur- 
dened himself  of  all  his  troubles,  and  had  explained  the  misun- 


426  THELMA. 

derstanding  about  Violet  Vere,  and  Thelma's  consequent 
flight.  Lorimer  listened  with  a  look  of  genuine  pain  and  dis- 
tress on  his  honest  face. 

"Phil,  you  have  been  a  fool!"  he  said,  candidly.  "A  posi- 
tive fool,  if  you'll  pardon  me  for  saying  so.  You  ought  to 
have  told  Thelma  everything  at  first — she's  the  very  last 
woman  in  the  world  who  ought  to  be  kept  in  the  dark  about 
anything.  Neville's  feelings?  Bother  Neville's  feelings!  De- 
pend upon  it,  the  poor  girl  has  heard  all  manner  of  stories. 
She's  been  miserable  for  some  time — Duprez  noticed  it."  And 
he  related  in  a  few  words  the  little  scene  that  had  taken  place 
at  Errington  Manor  on  the  night  of  the  garden-party,  when 
his  playing  on  the  organ  had  moved  her  to  such  unwonted 
emotion. 

Philip  heard  him  in  moody  silence.  How  had  it  happened, 
he  wondered,  that  others — comparative  strangers — had  ob- 
served that  Thelma  looked  unhappy,  while  he,  her  husband, 
had  been  blind  to  it?  He  could  not  make  this  out — and  yet  it 
is  a  thing  that  very  commonly  happens.  Our  nearest  and 
dearest  are  often  those  who  are  most  in  the  dark  respecting 
our  private  and  personal  sufferings — we  do  not  wish  to  trouble 
them — and  they  prefer  to  think  that  everything  is  right  with 
us,  even  though  the  rest  of  the  world  can  plainly  perceive  that 
everything  is  wrong.  To  the  last  moment  they  will  refuse  to 
see  death  in  our  faces,  though  the  veriest  stranger  meeting  us 
casually  clearly  beholds  the  shadow  of  the  dark  angel's  hand. 

"Apropos  of  Lennox,"  went  on  Lorimer,  sympathetically 
watching  his  friend,  "I  came  on  purpose  to  speak  to  you  about 
him.  I've  got  some  news  for  you.  He's  a  regular  sneak  and 
scoundrel.  You  can  thrash  him  to  your  heart's  content — for 
he  has  grossly  insulted  your  wife." 

"Insulted  her?"  cried  Errington,  furiously.  "How — 
what—" 

"Give  me  time  to  speak."  And  George  laid  a  restraining 
hand  on  his  arm.  "Thelma  visited  my  mother  yesterday  and 
told  her  that  on  the  night  before,  when  you  had  gone  out, 
Lennox  took  advantage  of  your  absence  to  come  here  and 
make  love  to  her — and  she  actually  had  to  struggle  with  him, 
and  even  to  strike  him,  in  order  to  release  herself  from  his 
advances.  My  mother  advised  her  to  tell  you  about  it — and 
she  evidently  then  had  no  intention  of  flight,  for  she  said  she 
should  inform  you  of  everything  as  soon  as  you  returned  from 


THELMA.  427 

the  coimtiy.  And  if  Lady  Winsleigli  liadn't  interfered,  it's 
very  probable  that —  I  say,  where  are  you  going?"  This  as 
Philip  made  a  bound  for  the  door. 

"To  get  my  horsewhip!"  he  answered. 

"All  right — I  approve!"  cried  Lorimer.  "But  wait  one  in- 
stant, and  see  how  clear  the  plot  becomes.  Thelma's  beauty 
has  maddened  Lennox.  To  gain  her  good  opinion,  as  he 
thinks,  he  throws  his  mistress,  Violet  Vere,  on  your  shoulders 
— (your  ingenuous  visits  to  the  Brilliant  Theater  gave  him  a 
capital  pretext  for  this) — and  as  for  Lady  Winsleigh's  share 
in  the  mischief,  it's  nothing  but  mere  feminine  spite  against 
you  for  marrying  at  all,  and  hatred  of  the  woman  whose  life 
is  such  a  contrast  to  her  own,  and  who  absorbs  all  your  affec- 
tion. Lennox  has  used  her  as  his  tool,  and  the  Vere  also,  I've 
no  doubt.  The  thing's  as  clear  as  crystal.  It's  a  sort  of  gen- 
eral misunderstanding  all  round — one  of  those  eminently 
unpleasant  trifles  that  veiy  frequently  upset  the  peace  and 
comfort  of  the  most  quiet  and  inoffensive  persons.  But  the 
fault  lies  with  you,  dear  old  boy!" 

"With  me!"  exclaimed  Philip. 

"Certainly!  Thelma's  soul  is  as  open  as  daylight — you 
shouldn't  have  had  any  secret  from  her,  however  trifling. 
She's  not  a  woman  'on  guard' — she  can't  take  life  as  the  most 
of  us  do,  in  military  fashion,  with  ears  pricked  for  the  ap- 
proach of  a  spy,  and  prepared  to  expect  betrayal  from  her 
most  familiar  friends.  She  accepts  things  as  they  appear, 
without  any  suspicion  of  mean  ulterior  designs.  It's  a  pity, 
of  course! — it's  a  pity  she  can't  be  worldly  wise,  and  scheme 
and  plot  and  plan  and  lie  like  the  rest  of  us!  However,  your 
course  is  plain — first  interview  Lennox  and  then  follow 
Thelma.  She  can't  have  left  Hull  yet — there  are  scarcely  any 
boats  running  to  Norway  at  this  season.  You'll  overtake  her, 
I'm  certain." 

"By  Jove,  Lorimer!"  said  l']rrington  suddenly,  'Clara  Wins- 
leigh  sticks  at  nothing.  Do  you  know  she  actually  had  the 
impudence  to  suggest  that  you — you,  of  all  people — were  in 
love  with  Thelma!" 

Lorimer  flushed  up,  but  laughed  lightly.  "How  awfully 
sweet  of  her!  Much  obliged  to  her,  I'm  sure!  And  how  did 
you  take  it,  Phil?" 

"Take  it?  I  didn't  take  it  at  all,"  responded  Philip,  warmly. 


428  THELMA. 

"Of  course,  I  knew  it  was  only  her  spite — she'd  say  anything 
in  one  of  her  tempers." 

Lorimer  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  tenderness  in  his  blue 
eyes.     Then  he  laughed  again,  a  little  forcedly,  and  said: 

"Be  off,  old  man,  and  get  that  whip  of  yours!  We'll  run 
Lennox  to  earth.     Halloo!  here's  Britta!" 

The  little  maid  entered  hurriedly  at  that  moment — she 
came  to  ask  with  quivering  lips,  whether  she  might  accom- 
pany Sir  Philip  on  his  intended  journey  to  Norway. 

"For  if  you  do  not  find  the  Froken  at  Hull,  you  will  want 
to  reach  the  Alten  Fjord,"  said  Britta,  folding  her  hands 
resolutely  in  front  of  her  apron,  "and  you  will  not  get  on 
without  me.  You  do  not  know  what  the  country  is  like  in  the 
depth  of  winter  when  the  sun  is  asleep.  You  must  have  the 
reindeer  to  help  you — and  no  Englishman  knows  how  to  drive 
reindeer.  And — and" — here  Britta's  eyes  filled — "you  have 
not  thought,  perhaps,  that  the  journey  may  make  the  Froken 
very  ill — and  that  when  we  find  her — she  may  be — dying;" 
and  Britta's  strength  gave  way  in  a  great  big  sob  that  broke 
from  the  depths  of  her  honest,  affectionate  heart. 

"Don't — don't  talk  like  that,  Britta!"  cried  Philip,  passion- 
ately. "I  can't  bear  it!  Of  course,  you  shall  go  with  me!  I 
wouldn't  leave  you  behind  for  the  world!  Get  everything 
ready" — and  in  a  fever  of  heat  and  impatience  he  began  rum- 
maging among  some  books  on  a  side-shelf,  till  he  found  the 
time-tables  he  sought.  "Yes — here  we  are — there's  a  train 
leaving  for  Hull  at  five — we'll  take  that.  Tell  Morris  to  pack 
my  portmanteau,  and  you  bring  it  along  with  you  to  the  Mid- 
land Railway  Station  this  afternoon.     Do  you  understand?" 

Britta  nodded  emphatically,  and  humed  off  at  once  to  busy 
herself  with  these  preparations,  while  Philip,  all  excitement, 
dashed  off  to  give  a  few  parting  injunctions  to  Neville,  and 
to  get  his  horsewhip. 

Lorimer,  left  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  seated  himself  in  an 
easy-chair  and  began  absently  turning  over  the  newspapers 
on  the  table.  But  his  thoughts  were  far  away,  and  presently 
he  covered  his  eyes  with  one  hand  as  though  the  light  hurt 
them.     When  he  removed  it,  his  lashes  were  wet. 

"What  a  fool  I  am!"  he  muttered,  impatiently.  "Oh, 
Thelma,  Thelma!  my  darling! — how  I  wish  I  could  follow  and 
find  you  and  console  you! — you  poor,  tender,  resigned  soul, 
going  away   like  this   because  you   thought  you   were   not 


THELMA.  429 

wanted — not  wanted! — my  God! — if  you  only  knew  how  one 
man  at  least  has  wanted  and  yearned  for  you  ever  since  he 
saw  your  sweet  face!  Why  can't  I  tear  you  out  of  my  heart — 
why  can't  I  love  some  one  else?  Ah,  Phil! — good,  generous, 
kind  old  Phil! — he  little  guesses,"  he  rose  and  paced  the  room 
up  and  down  restlessly.  "The  fact  is  I  oughtn't  to  he  here  at 
all — I  ought  to  leave  England  altogether  for  a  long  time — till 
— till  I  get  over  it.  The  question  is,  shall  I  ever  get  over  it? 
Sigurd  was  a  wise  boy — he  found  a  short  way  out  of  all  his 
troubles — suppose  I  imitate  his  example?  No — for  a  man  in 
his  senses  that  would  be  rather  cowardly — though  it  might  be 
pleasant!"  He  stopped  in  his  walk  with  a  pondering  expres- 
sion on  his  face.  "At  any  rate,  I  won't  stop  here  to  see  her 
come  back — I  couldn't  trust  myself — I  should  say  something 
foolish — I  know  I  should!  I'll  take  my  mother  to  Italy — she 
wants  to  go;  and  we'll  stay  with  Lovelace.  It'll  be  a  change 
— and  I'll  have  a  good  stand-up  fight  with  myself,  and  see  if 
I  can't  come  ofi'  the  conqueror  somehow!  It's  all  very  well  to 
kill  an  opponent  in  battle — but  the  question  is,  can  a  man  kill 
his  inner,  grumbling,  discontented,  selfish  Self?  If  he  can't, 
what's  the  good  of  him?" 

As  he  was  about  to  consider  this  point  reflectively,  Erring- 
ton  entered,  equipped  for  traveling,  and  whip  in  hand.  His 
imagination  had  been  at  work  during  the  past  few  minutes, 
exaggerating  all  the  horrors  and  difficulties  of  Thelma's  Jour- 
ney to  the  Alten  Fjord,  till  he  was  in  a  perfect  fever  of  irritable 
excitement. 

"Come  on,  Lorimer!"  he  cried.  "There's  no  time  to  lose! 
Britta  knows  what  to  do — she'll  meet  me  at  the  station.  I 
can't  breathe  in  this  wretched  house  a  moment  longer — let's 
be  off!" 

Plunging  out  into  the  hall,  he  bade  Morris  summon  a  han- 
som— and  with  a  few  last  instructions  to  that  faithful  servi- 
tor, and  an  encouraging  kind  word  and  shake  of  the  hand  to 
Neville,  who,  with  a  face  of  remorseful  misery,  stood  at  the 
door  to  watch  his  departure,  he  was  gone.  The  hansom  con- 
taining him  and  Lorimer  rattled  rapidly  toward  the  abode  of 
Sir  Francis  Lennox,  but  on  entering  Piccadilly  the  vehicle  was 
compelled  to  go  so  slowly  on  account  of  the  traffic  that 
Errington,  who  every  moment  grew  more  and  more  impatient, 
could  not  stand  it. 


430  THELMA. 

"By  Jove!  this  is  like  a  walking  funeral!"  lie  muttered.  "I 
say,  Lorimer,  let's  get  out!     We  can  do  the  rest  on  foot." 

They  stopped  the  cabman  and  paid  him  his  fare — then  hur- 
ried along  rapidly,  Errington  every  now  and  then  giving  a 
fiercer  clinch  to  the  formidable  horsewhip  which  was  twisted 
together  with  his  ordinar}^  walking-stick  in  such  a  manner  as 
not  to  attract  special  attention. 

"Coward  and  liar!"  he  muttered,  as  he  thought  of  the  man 
he  was  about  to  punish.  "He  shall  pay  for  his  dastardly  false- 
hood— by  Jove,  he  shall!  It'll  be  a  precious  long  time  before 
he  shows  himself  in  society  any  more!" 

Then  he  addressed  Lorimer.  "You  may  depend  upon  it 
he'll  shout  'police!  police!'  and  make  for  the  door,"  he  ob- 
served. "You  keep  your  back  against  it,  Lorimer!  I  don't 
care  how  many  fines  I've  got  to  pay  as  long  as  I  can  thrash 
him  soundly!" 

"All  right!"  Lorimer  answered,  and  they  quickened  their 
pace.  As  they  neared  the  chambers  which  Sir  Francis  Len- 
nox rented  over  a  fashionable  jeweler's  shop,  they  became 
aware  of  a  small  procession  coming  straight  toward  them  from 
the  opposite  direction.  Something  was  being  carried  between 
four  men  who  appeared  to  move  with  extreme  care  and  gentle- 
ness— this  something  was  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  boys  and 
men  whose  faces  were  full  of  morbid  and  frightened  interest — 
the  whole  cortege  was  headed  by  a  couple  of  solemn  policemen. 
"You  spoke  of  a  walking  funeral  just  now,"  said  Lorimer 
suddenly.     "This  looks  uncommonly  like  one." 

Errington  made  no  reply — he  had  only  one  idea  in  his  mind 
— the  determination  to  chastise  and  thoroughly  disgrace  Sir 
Francis.  "I'll  hound  him  out  of  the  clubs!"  he  thought,  in- 
dignantly. "His  own  set  shall  know  what  a  liar  he  is — and  if 
I  can  help  it  he  shall  never  hold  up  his  head  again!" 

Entirely  occupied  as  he  was  with  these  reflections,  he  paid 
no  heed  to  anything  that  was  going  on  in  the  street,  and  he 
scarcely  heard  Lorimer's  last  observation.  So  that  he  was 
utterly  surprised  and  taken  aback  when  he,  with  Lorimer,  was 
compelled  to  come  to  a  halt  before  the  very  door  of  the 
jeweler,  Lennox's  landlord,  wbile  the  two  policemen  cleared 
a  passage  through  the  crowd,  saying,  in  low  tones,  "Stand 
aside,  gentlemen,  please! — stand  aside,"  thus  making  gradual 
way  for  four  bearers,  who,  as  was  now  plainly  to  be  seen,  car- 
ried a  common  wooden  stretcher  covered  with  a  cloth,  under 


THELMA.  431 

which  lay  what  seemed,  from  its  outline,  to  be  a  human  figure. 

"What's  the  matter  here?"  asked  Lorimer,  with  a  curious 
cold  thrill  running  through  him  as  he  put  the  simple  question. 

One  of  the  policemen  answered  readily  enough. 

"An  accident,  sir.  Gentleman  badly  hurt.  Down  at  Cha- 
ring Cross  Station — tried  to  jump  into  a  train  when  it  had 
started — foot  caught — was  thrown  under  the  wheels  and 
dragged  along  some  distance — doctor  says  he  can't  live,  sir." 

"Who  is  he — what's  his  name?" 

"Lennox,  sir — leastways,  that's  the  name  on  his  card — and 
this  is  the  address.     Sir  Francis  Lennox,  I  believe  it  is." 

Errington  uttered  a  sharp  exclamation  of  horror — at  that 
moment  the  jeweler  came  out  of  the  recesses  of  his  shop  with 
uplifted  hands  and  bewildered  countenance. 

"An  accident?  Good  heavens! — Sir  Francis!  Upstairs! — 
take  him  upstairs!"  Here  he  addressed  the  bearers.  "You 
should  have  gone  round  to  the  private  entrance — he  mustn't 
be  seen  in  the  shop — frightening  away  all  my  customers — 
here,  pass  through! — pass  through,  as  quick  as  you  can!" 

And  they  did  pass  through,  carrying  their  crushed  burden 
tenderly  along  by  the  shining  glass  cases  and  polished  coun- 
ters, where  glimmered  and  flashed  jewels  of  every  size  and 
luster  for  the  adorning  of  the  children  of  this  world.  Slowly 
and  carefully,  step  by  step,  they  reached  the  upper  floor,  and 
there,  in  a  luxurious  apartment  furnished  with  almost  femi- 
nine elegance,  they  lifted  the  inanimate  form  from  the 
stretcher  and  laid  it  down,  still  shrouded,  on  a  velvet  sofa,  re- 
moving the  last  number  of  Truth  and  two  of  Zola's  novels  to 
make  room  for  the  heavy,  unconscious  head. 

Errington  and  Lorimer  stood  at  the  door-way,  completely 
overcome  by  the  suddenness  of  the  event — they  had  followed 
the  bearers  upstairs  almost  mechanically — exchanging  no  word 
or  glance  by  the  way — and  now  they  watched  in  almost 
breathless  suspense  while  a  surgeon  who  was  present  gently 
turned  back  the  cover  that  hid  the  injured  man's  features  and 
exposed  them  to  full  view.  Was  that  Sir  Francis?  that  blood- 
smeared,  mangled  creature? — that  the  lascivious  dandy — the 
disciple  of  no-creed  and  self- worship?  Errington  shuddered 
and  averted  his  gaze  from  that  hideous  face  so  horribly  con- 
torted, yet  otherwise  death-like  in  its  rigid  stillness.  There 
was  a  grave  hush.     The  surgeon  still  bent  over  liim — touching 


432  THELMA. 

here,  probing  there,  with  tenderness  and  skill — but  finally  he 
drew  back  with  a  hopeless  shake  of  the  head. 

"Nothing  can  be  done,"  he  whispered.  "Absolutely  noth- 
ing!" 

At  that  moment  Sir  Francis  stirred — he  groaned  and 
opened  his  eyes;  what  terrible  eyes  they  were,  filled  with  that 
look  of  intense  anguish,  and  something  worse  than  anguish — 
fear — frantic  fear — coward  fear — fear  that  was  always  more 
overpowering  than  his  bodily  suffering. 

He  stared  wildly  at  the  little  group  assembled — strange 
faces,  so  far  as  he  could  make  them  out,  that  regarded  him 
with  evident  compassion.  What — what  was  all  this — what  did 
it  mean?  Death?  No,  no!  he  thought  madly,  while  his  brain 
reeled  with  the  idea — death?  What  was  death? — darkness, 
annihilation,  blackness — all  that  was  horrible — unimaginable! 
God!  he  would  not  die!  God! — who  was  God?  No  matter — 
he  would  live;  he  would  struggle  against  this  heaviness — this 
coldness — this  pillar  of  ice  in  which  he  was  being  slowly  frozen 
— frozen — frozen! — inch  by  inch!  He  made  a  furious  effort 
to  move,  and  uttered  a  scream  of  agony,  stabbed  through  and 
through  by  torturing  pain. 

"Keep  still!"  said  the  surgeon,  pityingly. 

Sir  Francis  heard  him  not.  He  wrestled  with  his  bodily  an- 
guish till  the  perspiration  stood  in  large  drops  on  his  fore- 
head. He  raised  himself,  gasping  for  breath,  and  glared  about 
him  like  a  trapped  beast  of  prey. 

"Give  me  brandy!"  he  muttered,  chokingly.  "Quick — 
quick!  Are  you  going  to  let  me  die  like  a  dog? — damn  you 
all!" 

The  effort  to  move — to  speak — exhausted  his  sinking 
strength — his  throat  rattled — he  clinched  his  fists  and  made 
as  though  he  would  spring  off  his  couch — when  a  fearful  con- 
tortion convulsed  his  whole  body — his  eyes  rolled  up  and  be- 
came fixed — he  fell  heavily  back — dead! 

Quietly  the  surgeon  covered  again  what  was  now  nothing — 
nothing  but  a  mutilated  corpse. 

"It's  all  over!"  he  announced,  briefly. 

Errington  heard  these  words  in  sickened  silence.  All  over! 
Was  it  possible?  So  soon?  All  over! — and  he  had  come  too 
late  to  punish  the  would-be  ravisher  of  his  wife's  honor — too 
late!  He  still  held  the  whip  in  his  hand  with  which  he  had 
meant  to  chastise  that — that  distorted,  mangled  lump  of  clay 


THELMA.  433 

yonder — pah!  he  could  not  bear  to  think  of  it,  and  he  turned 
away,  faint  and  dizzy.  He  felt,  rather  than  saw,  the  stair- 
case, down  which  he  dreamily  went,  followed  by  Lorimer. 

The  two  policemen  were  in  the  hall  scribbling  the  cut-and- 
dry  particulars  of  the  accident  in  their  note-books,  which 
having  done,  they  marched  off,  attended  by  a  wandering, 
bilious-looking  penny-a-liner  who  was  anxious  to  write  a  suc- 
cessful account  of  the  "Shocking  Fatality,"  as  it  was  called 
in  the  next  day's  newspapers.  Then  the  bearers  departed 
cheerfully,  carrying  with  them  the  empty  stretcher.  Then  the 
jeweler,  who  seemed  quite  unmoved  respecting  the  sudden 
death  of  his  lodger,  chatted  amicably  with  the  surgeon  about 
the  reputation  and  various  demerits  of  the  deceased — and 
Errington  and  Lorimer,  as  they  passed  through  the  shop, 
heard  him  speaking  of  a  person  hitherto  unheard  of,  namel}, 
Lady  Francis  Lennox,  who  had  been  deserted  by  her  husband 
for  the  past  six  years,  and  who  was  living  uncomplainingly 
the  life  of  an  art  student  in  Germany  witli  her  married  sister, 
maintaining,  by  the  work  of  her  own  hands,  her  one  little 
child,  a  boy  of  five. 

"He  never  allowed  her  a  farthing,"  said  the  conversational 
jeweler.  "And  she  never  asked  him  for  one.  Mr.  Wiggins, 
his  lawyer — firm  of  Wiggins  &  Whizzer,  Furnival's  Inn — told 
me  all  about  his  affairs.  Oh,  yes — he  was  a  regular  'masher' 
— tip-top!  Not  worth  much,  I  should  say.  He  must  have 
spent  over  a  thousand  a  year  in  keeping  up  that  little  place 
at  St.  John's  Wood  for  Violet  Vere.  He  owes  me  five  hun- 
dred. However,  Mr.  Wiggins  will  see  everything  fair,  I've  no 
doubt;  I've  just  wired  him,  announcing  the  death.  I  don't 
suppose  any  one  will  regret  him — except,  perhaps,  the  woman 
at  St.  John's  Wood.  But  I  believe  she's  playing  for  a  bigger 
stake  just  now."  And,  stimulated  by  this  thought,  he  drew 
out  from  a  handsome  morocco  case  a  superb  pendant  of  emer- 
alds and  diamonds — a  work  of  art,  that  glittered  as  he  displayed 
it  like  a  star  on  a  frosty  night. 

"Pretty  thing,  isn't  it?"  he  said,  proudly.  "Eight  hundred 
pounds,  and  cheap,  too!  It  was  ordered  for  Miss  Vere,  two 
months  ago,  by  the  Duke  of  Moorlands.  I  see  he  sold  his 
collection  of  pictures  the  other  day.  Luckily  they  fetched  a 
tidy  sum,  so  I'm  pretty  sure  of  the  money  for  this.  He'll  sell 
everything  he's  got  to  please  her.  Queer?  Oh,  not  at  all! 
She's  the  rage  just  now.  I  can't  see  anything  in  her  myself — 
28 


434  THELMA. 

but  Fm  not  a  duke,  you  see — I'm  obliged  to  be  respectable!" 
He  laughed  as  he  returned  the  pendant  to  its  nest  of  padded 
amber  satin,  and  Errington — sick  at  heart  to  hear  such  frivo- 
lous converse  going  on  while  that  crushed  and  lifeless  form 
lay  in  the  very  room  above — unwatched,  uncared-for — put  his 
arm  through  Lorimer's  and  left  the  shop. 

Once  in  the  open  street,  with  the  keen,  cold  air  blowing 
against  their  faces,  they  looked  at  each  other  blankly,  Picca- 
dilly was  crowded;  the  hurrying  people  passed  and  repassed 
— there  were  the  shouts  of  omnibus  conductors  and  newsboys 
— the  laughter  of  young  men  coming  out  of  the  St.  James' 
Hall  Eestaurant;  all  was  as  usual — as,  indeed,  why  should  it 
not?  What  matters  the  death  of  one  man  in  a  million?  un- 
less, indeed,  it  be  a  man  whose  life,  like  a  torch  uplifted  in 
darkness,  has  enlightened  and  cheered  the  world — but  the 
death  of  a  mere  fashionable  "swell"  whose  chief  talent  has 
been  a  trick  of  lying  gracefully — who  cares  for  such  a  one? 
Society  is  instinctively  relieved  to  hear  that  his  place  is  empty 
and  shall  know  him  no  more.  But  Errington  could  not  im- 
mediately forget  the  scene  he  had  witnessed.  He  was  over- 
come by  sensations  of  horror — even  of  pity — and  he  walked  by 
his  friend's  side  for  some  time  in  silence. 

"I  wish  I  could  get  rid  of  this  thing!"  he  said  suddenly, 
looking  down  at  the  horsewhip  in  his  hand. 

Lorimer  made  no  answer.  He  understood  his  feeling,  and 
realized  the  situation  as  sufficiently  grim.  To  be  armed  with 
a  weapon  meant  for  the  chastisement  of  a  man  whom  Death 
had  so  suddenly  claimed  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  unpleas- 
ant. Yet  the  horsewhip  could  scarcely  be  thrown  away  in 
Piccadilly — such  an  action  might  attract  notice  and  comment. 
Presently  Philip  spoke  again. 

"He  was  actually  married  all  the  time!" 

"So  it  seems;"  and  Lorimer's  face  expressed  something 
very  like  contempt.  "By  Jove,  Phil!  he  must  have  been  an 
awful  scoundrel!" 

"Don't  let's  say  any  more  about  him— he's  dead!"  and 
Philip  quickened  his  steps.     "And  what  a  horrible  death!" 

"Horrible  enough,  indeed!" 

Again  they  were  both  silent.  Mechanically  they  turned 
down  toward  Pall  Mall. 

"George,"  said  Errington,  with  a  strange  awe  in  his  tones, 
"it  seems  to  me  to-day  as  if  there  were  death  in  the  air.     T 


THELMA.  435 

don't  believe  in  presentiments,  but  yet — yet  I  can  not  help 
thinking — what  if  I  should  find  my  Thelma — dead?" 

Lorimer  turned  very  pale — a  cold  shiver  ran  through  him, 
but  he  endeavored  to  smile. 

"For  God's  sake,  old  fellow,  don't  think  of  anything  so  ter- 
rible! Look  here,  you're  hipped — no  wonder,  and  you've  got 
a  long  journey  before  you.  Come  and  have  lunch.  It's  just 
two  o'clock.  Afterward  we'll  go  to  the  Garrick  and  have  a 
chat  with  Beau  Lovelace — he's  a  first-rate  fellow  for  looking 
on  the  bright  side  of  everything.  Then  I'll  see  you  off  this 
afternoon  at  the  ]\Iidland — what  do  you  say?" 

Errington  assented  to  this  arrangement,  and  tried  to  shake 
off  the  depression  that  had  settled  upon  him,  though  dark 
forebodings  passed  one  after  the  other  like  clouds  across  his 
mind.  He  seemed  to  see  the  Altenguard  hills  stretching 
drearily,  white  with  frozen  snow,  around  the  black  fjord;  he 
pictured  Thelma,  broken-hearted,  fancying  herself  deserted, 
returning  through  the  cold  and  darkness  to  the  lonely  farm- 
house behind  the  now  withered  pines.  Then  he  began  to 
think  of  the  shell-cave  where  that  other  Thelma  lay  hidden  in 
her  last  deep  sleep — the  wailing  words  of  Sigurd  came  freshly 
back  to  his  ears,  when  the  poor  crazed  lad  had  likened 
Thelma's  thoughts  to  his  favorite  flowers,  the  pansies — "One 
by  one  you  will  gather  and  play  with  her  thoughts  as  though 
they  were  these  blossoms;  your  burning  hand  will  mar  their 
color — they  will  wither  and  furl  up  and  die — and  you — what 
will  you  care?  Nothing!  No  man  ever  cares  for  a  flower  that 
is  withered — not  even  though  his  own  hand  slew  it!" 

Had  he  been  to  blame?  he  mused,  with  a  sorrowful  weight 
at  his  heart.  Unintentionally,  had  he — yes,  he  would  put  it 
plainly,  had  he  neglected  her,  just  a  little?  Had  he  not,  with 
all  his  true  and  passionate  love  for  her,  taken  her  beauty,  her 
devotion,  her  obedience  too  much  for  granted — too  much  as 
his  right?  And  in  these  latter  months,  when  her  health  had 
made  her  weaker  and  more  in  need  of  his  tenderness,  had  he 
not,  in  a  sudden  desire  for  political  fame  and  worldly  honor, 
left  her  too  much  alone,  a  prey  to  solitude  and  the  often  mor- 
bid musings  which  solitude  engenders? 

He  began  to  blame  himself  heartily  for  the  misunderstand- 
ing that  had  arisen  out  of  his  share  in  Neville's  unhappy 
secret.  Neville  had  been  weak  and  timid — he  had  shrunk 
nervously  from  avowing  that  the  notorious  Violet  Vere  was 


436  THELMA. 

actually  the  woman  he  had  so  faithfully  loved  and  mourned — 
but  he,  Philip,  ought  not  to  have  humored  him  in  these  fas- 
tidious scruples — ^he  ought  to  have  confided  everything  to 
Thelma.  He  remembered  now  that  he  had  once  or  twice  been 
uneasy  lest  rumors  of  his  frequent  visits  to  Miss  Vere  might 
possibly  reach  his  wife's  ears;  but  then,  as  his  purpose  was 
absolutely  disinterested  and  harmless,  he  did  not  dwell  on 
this  idea,  but  dismissed  it,  and  held  his  peace  for  Neville's 
sake,  contenting  himself  with  the  thought  that,  "if  Thelma 
did  hear  anything,  she  would  never  believe  a  word  against 
me." 

He  could  not  quite  see  where  his  fault  had  been — though  a 
fault  there  was  somewhere,  as  he  uneasily  felt — and  he  would 
no  doubt  have  started  indignantly  had  a  small  elf  whispered 
in  his  ear  the  word  "Conceit."  Yet  that  was  the  name  of  his 
failing — that  and  no  other.  How  many  men,  otherwise  noble- 
hearted,  are  seriously,  though  often  unconsciously,  burdened 
with  this  large  parcel  of  blown-out  jSTothing!  Sir  Philip  did 
not  appear  to  be  conceited — he  would  have  repelled  the  ac- 
cusation with  astonishment — not  knowing  that  in  his  very 
denial  of  the  fault  the  fault  existed.  He  had  never  been  truly 
humbled  but  twice  in  his  life — once  as  he  knelt  to  receive  Ms 
mother's  dying  benediction — and  again  when  he  first  loved 
Thelma  and  was  uncertain  whether  his  love  could  be  returned 
by  so  fair  and  pure  a  creature.  With  these  two  exceptions, 
all  his  experience  had  tended  to  give  him  an  excellent  opinion 
of  himself — and  that  he  should  possess  one  of  the  best  and 
loveliest  wives  in  the  world  seemed  to  him  quite  in  keeping 
with  the  usual  course  of  things.  The  feeling  that  it  was  a 
sheer  impossibility  for  her  to  ever  believe  a  word  against 
him  rose  out  of  this  inward  self-satisfaction — this  one  flaw  in 
his  otherwise  bright,  honest,  and  lovable  character — a  flaw  of 
which  he  himself  was  not  aware.  'Now,  when  for  the  third 
time  his  fairy  castle  of  perfect  peace  and  pleasure  seemed 
shaken  to  its  foundations — when  he  again  realized  the  uncer- 
tainty of  life  or  death,  he  felt  bewildered  and  wretched.  His 
chief  est  pride  was  centered  in  Thelma,  and  she — was  gone! 
Again  he  reverted  to  the  miserable  idea  that,  like  a  melan- 
choly refrain,  haunted  him — "What  if  I  should  find  her  dead!" 

Absorbed  in  painful  reflections,  he  was  a  very  silent  com- 
panion for  Lorimer  during  the  luncheon  which  they  took  at  a 
quiet  little  restaurant  well  known  to  the  habitues  of  Pall  Mall 


THELMA.  437 

and  Regent  Street.  Lorimcr  himself  had  his  own  reasons  for 
being  equally  depressed  and  anxious — for  did  he  not  love 
Thelma  as  much  as  even  her  husband  could? — nay,  perhaps 
more,  knowing  his  love  was  hopeless.  Not  always  does  pos- 
session of  the  adored  object  strengthen  the  adoration — the 
rapturous  dreams  of  an  ideal  passion  have  often  been  known  to 
surpass  reality  a  thousand-fold.  So  the  two  friends  exchanged 
but  few  words,  though  they  tried  to  converse  cheerfully  on 
indifferent  subjects,  and  failed  in  the  attempt.  They  had 
nearly  finished  their  light  I'epast,  when  a  familiar  voice 
saluted  them. 

"It  is  Errington — I  thocht  I  couldna  be  mistaken!  How  are 
ye  both?" 

Sandy  Macfarlane  stood  before  them,  unaltered,  save  that 
his  scanty  beard  had  grown  somewhat  longer.  They  had  seen 
nothing  of  him  since  their  trip  to  Norway,  and  they  greeted 
him  now  with  unaffected  heartiness,  glad  of  the  distraction 
his  appearance  afforded  them. 

"Where  do  you  hail  from,  Mac  ?"  asked  Lorimer,  as  he  made 
the  new-comer  sit  down  at  their  table.  "We  haven't  heard 
of  you  for  an  age." 

"It  is  a  goodish  bit  of  time,"  assented  Macfarlane,  "but  bet- 
ter late  than  never.  I  came  up  to  London  a  week  ago  from 
Glasgie — and  my  heed  has  been  in  a  whirl  ever  since.  Eh, 
mon!  but  it's  an  awfu'  place! — may  be  I'll  get  used  to't  after 
a  wee  whilie." 

"Are  you  going  to  settle  here,  then?"  inquired  Emngton. 
"I  thought  you  intended  to  be  a  minister  somewhere  in 
Scotland?" 

Macfarlane  smiled,  and  his  eyes  twinkled. 

"I  hae  altered  ma  opee-nions  a  bit,"  he  said.  "Ye  see,  ma 
aunt  in  Glasgie's  deed — " 

"I  understand,"  laughed  Lorimer.  "You've  come  in  for  the 
old  lady's  money?" 

"Puir  body!"  and  Sandy  shook  his  head  gravely.  "A  few 
hours  before  she  died  she  tore  up  her  will  in  a  screamin'  fury 
o'  Christian  charity  and  forethought — meanin'  to  mak  anither 
in  favor  o'  leavin'  a'  her  warld's  trash  to  the  Fund  for  Distrib- 
utin'  Bible  Knowledge  among  the  Heathen — but  she  never 
had  time  to  fulfill  her  intention.  She  went  off  like  a  lamb — 
and  there  being  no  will,  her  money  fell  to  me,  as  the  nearest 
survivin'  relative.     Eh!   the  puir  thing!  if  her  dees-imbodied 


438  THBLMA. 

spirit  is  anywhere  aboot,  she  must  be  in  a  sair  pHght  to  think 
I've  got  it,  after  a'  her  curses!" 

"How  much?"  asked  Lorimer,  amused. 
"Oh,  just  a  fair  seventy  thousand  or  so,"  answered  Macfar- 
lane,  carelessly. 

"Well  done,  Mac!"  said  Errington,  with  a  smile,  endeavor- 
ing to  appear  interested.  "You're  quite  rich,  then?  I  con- 
gratulate you!" 

"Eiches  are  a  snare,"  observed  Macfarlane,  sententiously, 
"a  snare  and  a  decoy  to  both  soul  and  body!"  He  laughed 
and  rubbed  his  hands — then  added  with  some  eagerness:  "I 
say,  how  is  Lady  Errington?" 

"She's  very  well,"  answered  Sir  Philip  hurriedly,  exchang- 
ing a  quick  look  with  Lorimer,  which  the  latter  at  once  under- 
stood. "She's  away  on  a  visit  just  now.  I'm  going  to  join 
her  this  afternoon." 

"I'm  sorry  she's  away,"  said  Sandy,  and  he  looked  very 
disappointed;  "but  I'll  see  her  when  she  comes  back.  Will 
she  be  long  absent?" 

"No,  not  long — a  few  days  only" — and  as  Errington  said 
this  an  involuntary  sigh  escaped  him. 

A  few  days  only! — God  grant  it!  But  what — what  if  he 
should  find  her  dead? 

Macfarlane  noticed  the  sadness  of  his  expression,  but  pru- 
dently forbore  to  make  any  remark  upon  it.  He  contented 
himself  with  saying: 

"Well,  ye've  got  a  wife  worth  having,  as  I  dare  say  ye  know. 
I  shall  be  glad  to  pay  my  respects  to  her  as  soon  as  she  re- 
turns. I've  got  your  address,  Errington — will  ye  take  mine  ?" 
And  he  handed  him  a  small  card,  on  which  was  written  in 
pencil  the  number  of  a  house  in  one  of  the  lowest  streets  in 
the  East  End  of  London.  Philip  glanced  at  it  with  some 
surprise. 

"Is  this  where  you  live?"  he  asked,  with  emphatic  amaze- 
ment. 

"Yes.  It's  jvist  the  cleanest  tenement  I  could  find  in  that 
neighborhood.  And  the  woman  that  keeps  it  is  fairly  re- 
spectable." 

"But  with  your  money,"  remonstrated  Lorimer,  who  also 
looked  at  the  card,  "I  rather  wonder  at  your  choice  of  abode. 
Why,  my  dear  fellow,  do  you  know  what  sort  of  a  place  it  is?" 


THELMA.  439 


A  steadfast,  earnest,  thinking  look  came  into  Macfarlane's 
deep-set  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  do  know,  pairfectly,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion. "It's  a  place  where  there's  misery,  starvation,  and  crime 
of  all  sorts — and  there  I  am  in  the  very  midst  of  it — just 
where  I  want  to  be.  Ye  see,  I  was  meant  to  be  a  meen-ister — 
one  of  those  douce,  cannie,  comfortable  bodies  that  drone  in 
the  pulpit  about  predestination  and  original  sin,  and  so  forth 
— a  sort  of  palaver  that  does  no  good  to  ony  reasonable  crea- 
ture— an'  if  I  had  followed  oot  this  profession,  I  mak  nae  doot 
that,  with  my  aunt's  seventy  thousand,  I  should  be  a  vera 
comfortable,  respectable,  selfish  type  of  a  man,  who  was  de- 
cently embarked  in  an  apparently  important  but  really  use- 
less career — " 

"Useless?"  interrupted  Lorimer,  archly.  "I  say,  Mac,  take 
care!     A  minister  of  the  Lord  useless!" 

"I'm  thinkin'  there  are  unco  few  meen-isters  o'  the  Lord  in 
this  world,"  said  Macfarlane,  musingly.  "Maist  o'  them  meen- 
ister  to  themselves,  an'  care  na  a  wheen  mair  for  Christ  than 
Buddha.  I  tell  ye,  I  was  an  altered  mon  after  we'd  been  to 
Norway — the  auld  pagan  set  me  thinkin'  mony  an'  mony  a 
time — for,  ma  certes!  he's  better  worthy  respect  than  mony  a 
so-called  Christian.  And  as  for  his  daughter — the  twa  great 
blue  eyes  o'  that  lassie  made  me  fair  ashamed  o'  mysel'. 
Why?  Because  I  felt  that  as  a  meen-ister  o'  the  Established 
Kirk,  I  was  bound  to  be  a  sort  o'  heep-ocrite — ony  thinkin', 
reasonable  man  wi'  a  conscience  canna  be  otherwise  wi'  they 
folk — and  ye  ken,  Errington,  there's  something  in  your  wife's 
look  that  maks  a  body  hesitate  before  tellin'  a  lee.  Weel, 
what  wi'  her  face  an'  the  auld  bonde's  talk,  I  reflectit  that  I 
couldna  be  a  meen-ister  as  meen-isters  go,  an'  that  I  must 
e'en  follow  bot  the  Testament's  teachings  according  to  ma 
own  way  o'  thinkin'.  First,  I  fancied  I'd  rough  it  abroad  as 
a  mees-ionary,  then  I  remembered  the  savages  at  hame,  an' 
decided  to  attend  to  them  before  on^'thing  else.  Then  my 
aunt's  siller  came  in  handy — in  short,  I'm  just  gaun  to  live  on 
as  wee  a  handfu'  o'  the  filthy  lucre  as  I  can,  an'  lay  oot  the 
rest  on  the  heathens  o'  London.  An'  it's  as  well  to  do't  while 
I'm  alive  to  see  to't  mysel' — for  I've  often  observed  that  if  ye 
leave  your  warld's  gear  to  the  poor  when  ye're  deed,  just  for 
the  gude  reason  that  ye  canna  tak  it  to  the  grave  wi'  ye,  it'll 
melt  in  a  wonderfu'  way  through  the  hands  o'  the  'secretaries' 


440  THELMA. 

an'  'distributors'  o'  the  fund,  till  there's  naething  left  for 
those  ye  meant  to  benefit.  Ye  maunna  think  I'm  gaun  to  do 
ony  preachin'  business  down  at  the  East  End — there's  too 
much  o'  that  an'  tract-givin'  already.  The  puir  soul  whose 
wee  hoosie  I've  rented  hadna  tasted  bit  nor  sup  for  three  days 
— till  I  came  an'  startled  her  into  a  greetin'  fit  by  takin'  her 
rooms  an'  payin'  her  in  advance — eh!  mon,  ye'd  have  thought 
I  was  a  saint  frae  heaven  if  ye'd  heard  her  blessin'  me — an'  a 
gude  curate  had  called  on  her  just  before  and  had  given  her  a 
tract  to  dine  on.  Ye  see,  I  maun  mak  mysel'  a  friend  to  the 
folk  first,  before  I  can  do  them  gude — I  maun  get  to  the  heart 
o'  their  troubles — an'  troubles  are  plentiful  in  that  quarter — 
I  maun  live  among  them,  an'  be  ane  o'  them.  I  wad  mind 
ye  that  Christ  Himsel'  gave  sympathy  to  begin  with — He  did 
the  preachin'  afterward." 

"What  a  good  fellow  you  are,  Mac!"  said  Errington,  sud- 
denly seeing  his  raw  Scotch  friend  with  the  perverse  accent 
in  quite  a  new  and  heroic  light. 

Macfarlane  actually  blushed.  "Nonsense,  not  a  bit  o't!"  he 
declared  quite  nervously.  "It's  just  pure  selfishness,  after  a' 
— for  I'm  simply  enjoyin'  mysel'  the  hale  day  long.  Last 
nicht  I  found  a  wee  cripple  o'  a  laddie  sittin'  by  himsel'  in  the 
gutter,  munchin'  a  potato  skin.  I  just  took  him — he  starin' 
an'  blinkin'  like  an  owl  at  me — and  carried  him  into  my  room. 
There  I  gave  him  a  plate  o'  barley  broth,  an'  finished  him  up 
wi'  a  hunk  o'  gingerbread.  Ma  certes!  Ye  should  ha'  seen 
the  rascal  laugh!  'Twas  better  than  lookin'  at  a  play  from  a 
ten-guinea  box  on  the  grand  tier!" 

"By  Jove,  Sandy,  you're  a  brick!"  cried  Lorimer,  laughing 
to  hide  a  very  different  emotion.  "I  had  no  idea  you  were 
that  sort  of  chap." 

"Nor  had  I,"  said  Macfarlane  quite  simply — "I  never  fashed 
mysel'  wi'  thinkin'  o'  ither  folks'  troubles  at  a' — I  never  even 
took  into  conseederation  the  meanin'  o'  the  Testament  teach- 
ings till  I  saw  your  leddy  wife,  Errington."  He  paused  a 
moment,  then  added  gravely:  "Yes,  and  I've  fancied  she 
maun  be  a  real  live  angel,  an'  I've  sought  always  to  turn  my 
hand  to  something  useful  and  worth  the  doin'  ever  since  I  met 
her." 

'Til  tell  her  so,"  said  poor  Philip,  his  heart  aching  for  his 
lost  love  as  he  spoke,  though  he  smiled.  "It  will  give  her 
pleasure  to  hear  it." 


THELMA.  441 

Macfarlane  blushed  again  like  any  awkward  school-boy. 

"Oh,  I  dinna  ken  about  that!"  he  said,  hurriedly.  "She's 
just  a  grand  woman  any  way."  Then,  bethinking  himself  of 
another  subject,  he  asked:  "Have  you  heard  o'  the  Reverend 
Mr,  Dyceworthy  lately?" 

Errington  and  Lorimer  replied  in  the  negative. 

Macfarlane  laughed — his  eyes  twinkled.  "It's  evident  ye 
never  read  police  reports,"  he  said.  "Talk  o'  meen-isters— 
he's  a  pretty  specimen!  He's  been  hunted  out  o'  his  place  in 
Yorkshire  for  carryin'  on  love  affairs  wi'  the  women  o'  his 
congregation.  One  day  he  locked  himsel'  in  the  vestry  wi' 
the  new-married  wife  o'  one  o'  his  preencipal  supporters — an' 
he  had  a  grand  time  of  it — till  the  husband  came  an'  dragged 
him  oot  an'  thrashed  him  soundly.  Then  he  left  the  neighbor- 
hood, an'  just  th'  ither  day  he  turned  up  in  Glasgie." 

Macfarlane  paused  and  laughed  again. 

"Well,"  said  Lorimer,  with  some  interest;  "did  you  meet 
him  there?" 

"That  I  did,  but  no  to  speak  to  him;  he  was  far  too  weel 
lookit  after  to  need  my  services,"  and  Macfarlane  rubbed  his 
great  hands  together  with  an  irrepressible  chuckle.  "There 
was  a  crowd  o'  hootin'  laddies  round  him,  an'  he  was  callin' 
on  the  heavens  to  bear  witness  to  his  purity.  His  hat  was  off, 
an'  he  had  a  black  eye,  an'  a'  his  coat  was  covered  with  mud, 
an'  a  policeman  was  embracin'  him  vera  affectionately  by  th' 
arm.  He  was  in  charge  for  drunken,  disorderly,  an'  indecent 
conduct,  an'  the  magistrate  cam'  down  pretty  hard  on  him. 
The  case  proved  to  be  exceptionally  outrageous — so  he's  sen- 
tenced to  a  month's  imprisonment  an'  hard  labor.  Hard 
labor!  Eh,  mon!  but  that's  fine!  Fancy  him  at  work — at 
real  work — for  the  first  time  in  a'  his  days!  Gude  Lord!  I 
can  see  him  at  it!" 

"So  he's  come  to  that,"  and  Errington  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders with  weary  contempt.  "I  thought  he  would.  His  career 
as  a  minister  is  ended — that's  one  comfort!" 

"Don't  be  too  sure  o'  that,"  said  Sandy,  cautiously.  "There's 
always  America,  ye  ken.  He  can  mak'  a  holy  martyr  o'  him- 
sel' there.  He  may  gain  as  muckle  a  reputation  as  Henry 
Ward  Beecher — ye  can  never  tell  what  may  happen — 'tis  a 
queer  warld." 

"Queer,  indeed,"  assented  Lorimer  as  they  all  rose  and  left 
the  restaurant  together.     "If  our  present  existence  is  the  re- 


442  THELMA. 

suit  of  a  fortuitous  conglomeration  of  atoms,  I  think  the  atoms 
ought  to  have  been  more  careful  what  they  were  about,  that's 
all  I  can  say." 

They  reached  the  open  street,  where  Macf  arlane  shook  hands 
and  went  his  way,  promising  to  call  on  Errington  so  soon  as 
Thelma  should  be  again  at  home. 

"He's  turned  out  quite  a  fine  fellow,"  said  Lorimer,  when 
he  had  gone.  "I  should  never  have  thought  he  had  so  much 
in  him.     He  has  become  a  philanthropist." 

"I  fancy  he's  better  than  an  ordinary  philanthropist,"  re- 
plied Philip.  "Philanthropists  often  talk  a  great  deal  and  do 
nothing." 

"Like  members  of  Parliament,"  suggested  Lorimer,  with  a 
smile. 

"Exactly  so.     By  the  bye,  I've  resigned  my  candidateship." 

"Eesigned?     Why?" 

"Oh,  I'm  sick  of  the  thing!  One  has  to  be  such  a  humbug 
to  secure  one's  votes.  I  had  a  wretched  time  yesterday — 
speechifying  and  trying  to  rouse  up  clod-hoppers  to  the  inter- 
ests of  their  country — and  all  the  time  my  darling  at  home 
was  alone,  and  breaking  her  heart  about  me.  By  Jove!  if  I'd 
only  known!  When  I  came  back  this  morning  to  all  this  mis- 
ery, I  told  Neville  to  send  in  my  resignation.  I  repeated  the 
same  thing  to  him  the  last  thing  before  I  left  the  house." 

"But  you  might  have  waited  a  day  or  two,"  said  Lorimer, 
wonderingly.     "You're  such  a  fellow  of  impulse,  Phil — " 

"Well,  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  tired  of  politics.  I  began  with 
a  will,  fancying  that  every  member  of  the  House  had  his 
country's  interests  at  heart — not  a  bit  of  it!  They're  all  for 
themselves — most  of  them,  at  any  rate — they're  not  even 
sincere  in  their  efforts  to  do  good  to  the  population.  And  it's 
all  very  well  to  stick  up  for  the  aristocracy;  but  why,  in 
Heaven's  name,  can't  some  of  the  wealthiest  among  them  do 
as  much  as  our  old  Mac  is  doing  for  the  outcast  and  miserable 
poor?  I  see  some  real  usefulness  and  good  in  his  work,  and 
I'll  help  him  in  it  with  a  will — when — when  Thelma  comes 
back." 

Thus  talking,  the  two  friends  reached  the  Garrick  Club, 
where  they  found  Beau  Lovelace  in  the  reading-room,  turning 
over  some  new  books  with  the  curious  smiling  air  of  one  who 
believes  there  can  be  nothing  original  under  the  sun,  and  that 
all  literature  is  mere  repetition.    He  greeted  them  cheerfully. 


THELMA.  443 

"Come  out  of  here,"  he  said.  "Come  into  a  place  where  we 
can  talk.  There's  an  old  fellow  over  there  who's  ready  to 
murder  any  member  who  even  whispers.  We  won't  excite 
his  angry  passions.  You  know  we're  all  literature-mongers 
here — we've  each  got  our  own  little  particular  stall  where  we 
sort  our  goods — our  mouldy  oranges,  sour  apples,  and  indigest- 
ible nuts — and  Ave  polish  them  up  to  look  tempting  to  the  pub- 
lic. It's  a  great  business,  and  we  can't  bear  to  be  looked  at 
while  we're  turning  our  apples  with  the  best  side  outward, 
and  boiling  our  oranges  to  make  them  swell  and  seem  big! 
We  like  to  do  our  humbug  in  silence  and  alone." 

He  led  the  way  into  the  smoking-room,  and  there  heard 
with  much  surprise  and  a  great  deal  of  concern  the  story  of 
Thelma's  flight. 

"Ingenuous  boy!"  he  said,  kindly,  clapping  Philip  on  the 
shoulder.  "How  could  you  be  such  a  fool  as  to  think  that  re- 
peated visits  to  Violet  Vere,  no  matter  on  what  business, 
would  not  bring  the  dogs  of  scandal  yelping  about  your  heels. 
I  wonder  you  didn't  see  how  you  were  compromising  your- 
self." 

"He  never  told  me  about  it,"  interposed  Lorimer,  "or  else  I 
should  have  given  him  a  bit  of  my  mind  on  the  subject." 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Lovelace.  "And — excuse  me — why  the 
devil  didn't  you  let  your  secretary  manage  his  domestic  squab- 
bles by  himself?" 

"He's  very  much  broken  down,"  said  Errington.  "A  hope- 
less, frail,  disappointed  man,     I  thought  I  could  serve  him — " 

"I  see,"  and  Beau's  eyes  were  bent  on  him  with  a  very 
friendly  look.  "You're  a  first-rate  fellow,  Errington,  but  you 
shouldn't  fly  off  so  readily  on  the  rapid  wings  of  impulse. 
Now  I  suppose  you  want  to  shoot  Lennox — that  can't  be  done 
— not  in  England  at  any  rate." 

"It  can't  be  done  at  ail,  anywhere,"  said  Lorimer,  gravely. 
"He's  dead." 

Beau  Lovelace  started  back  in  amazement.  "Dead!  You 
don't  say  so!  Why,  he  was  dining  last  night  at  the  Criterion 
— I  saw  him  there." 

Briefly  they  related  the  sudden  accident  that  had  occurred, 
and  described  its  fatal  result. 

"He  died  horribly!"  said  Philip  in  a  low  voice.  "I  haven't 
got  over  it  yet.     That  evil,  tortured  face  of  his  haunts  me." 

Lovelace  was  only  slightly  shocked.     He  had  known  Len- 


444  THELMA. 

nox's  life  too  well  and  had  despised  it  too  thoroughly  to  feel 
much  regret  now  it  was  thus  abruptly  ended. 

"Eather  an  unpleasant  exit  for  such  a  fellow,"  he  remarked. 
"Not  aesthetic  at  all.  And  so  you  were  going  to  castigate 
him?" 

"Look!"  and  Philip  showed  him  the  horsewhip;  "I've  been 
carrying  this  thing  about  all  day — I  wish  I  could  drop  it  in  the 
streets;  but  if  I  did,  some  one  would  be  sure  to  pick  it  up  and 
return  it  to  me." 

"If  it  were  a  purse  containing  bank-notes  you  could  drop  it 
with  the  positive  certainty  of  never  seeing  it  again,"  laughed 
Beau.  "Here,  hand  it  over!"  and  he  possessed  himself  of  it. 
"I'll  keep  it  till  you  come  back.  You  leave  for  Norway  to- 
night, then?" 

"Yes.  If  I  can.  But  it's  the  winter  season,  and  there'll. be 
all  manner  of  difficulties.  I'm  afraid  it's  no  easy  matter  to 
reach  the  Alten  Fjord  at  this  time  of  year." 

"Why  not  use  your  yacht,  and  be  independent  of  ob- 
stacles?" suggested  Lovelace. 

"She's  under  repairs,  worse  luck!"  sighed  Philip,  despond- 
ingly.  "She  won't  be  in  sailing  condition  for  another  month. 
No,  I  must  take  my  chance,  that's  all.  It's  possible  I  may 
overtake  Thelma  at  Hull — that's  my  great  hope." 

"Well,  don't  be  down  in  the  mouth  about  it,  my  boy,"  said 
Beau,  sympathetically.  "It'll  all  come  right,  depend  upon  it. 
Your  wife's  a  sweet,  gentle,  noble  creature — and  when  once 
she  knows  all  about  the  miserable  mistake  that  has  arisen,  I 
don't  know  which  will  be  greatest,  her  happiness  or  her  peni- 
tence, for  having  misunderstood  the  position.  Now  let's  have 
some  coffee." 

He  ordered  this  refreshment  from  a  passing  waiter,  and  as 
he  did  so,  a  gentleman,  with  hands  clasped  behind  his  back, 
and  a  suave  smile  on  his  countenance,  bowed  to  him  with 
marked  and  peculiar  courtesy  as  he  sauntered  on  his  way 
through  the  room.  Beau  returned  the  salute  with  equal 
politeness. 

"That's  Whipper,"  he  explained  with  a  smile,  when  the 
gentleman  was  out  of  ear-shot.  "The  best  and  most  generous 
of  men!  He's  a  critic — all  critics  are  large-minded  and  gener- 
ous, we  know — ^but  he  happens  to  be  remarkably  so.  He  did 
me  the  kindest  turn  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  When  my  first 
book  came  out,  he  fell  upon  it  tooth  and  claw,  mangled  it,  tore 


THELMA.  445 

it  to  ribbons,  metaphorically  speaking,  and  waved  the  frag- 
ments mockingly  in  the  eyes  of  the  public.  From  that  day 
my  name  was  made — my  writing  sold  ofE  with  delightful 
rapidity,  and  words  can  never  tell  how  I  blessed  and  how  I 
still  bless  Whipper.  He  always  pitches  into  me — that's  what's 
so  good  of  him.  We're  awfully  polite  to  each  other,  as  you 
observe — and  what  is  so  perfectly  charming  is  that  he's  quite 
unconscious  how  much  he's  helping  me  along.  He's  really  a 
first-rate  fellow.  But  I  haven't  yet  attained  the  summit  of 
my  ambition" — and  here  Lovelace  broke  off  with  a  sparkle  of 
fun  in  his  clear  steel-gray  eyes. 

"Why,  what  else  do  you  want?"  asked  Lorimer,  laughing. 

*'I  want,"  returned  Beau,  solemnly,  "I  want  to  be  jeered  at 
by  'Punch.'  I  want  'Punch'  to  make  mouths  at  me,  and  give 
me  the  benefit  of  his  inimitable  squeak  and  gibber.  No 
author's  fame  is  quite  secure  till  dear  old  'Punch'  has  abused 
him.  Abuse  is  the  thing  nowadays,  you  know.  Heaven  for- 
bid that  I  should  be  praised  by  'Punch'!  That  would  be 
frightfully  unfortunate!" 

Here  the  coffee  arrived,  and  Lovelace  dispensed  it  to  his 
friends,  talking  gayly  the  while  in  an  effort  to  distract  Erring- 
ton  from  his  gloomy  thoughts. 

"I've  just  been  informed  on  respectable  authority  that  Walt 
Whitman  is  the  new  Socrates,"  he  said,  laughingly.  "I  felt 
rather  stunned  at  the  moment,  but  I've  got  over  it  now.  Oh, 
this  deliciously  mad  London!  What  a  gigantic  Colney 
Hatch  it  is  for  the  crazed  folk  of  the  world  to  air  their  follies 
in!  That  any  reasonable  Englishmen,  with  such  names  as 
Shakespeare,  Byron,  Keats,  and  Shelley  to  keep  the  glory  of 
their  country  warm,  should  for  one  moment  consider  Walt 
Whitman  a  poet!  Ye  gods!  Where  are  your  thunder- 
bolts!" 

"He's  an  American,  isn't  he?"  asked  Errington. 

"He  is,  my  dear  boy!  An  American  whom  the  sensible 
portion  of  America  rejects.  We,  therefore — out  of  opposition 
— take  him  up.  His  chief  recommendation  is  that  he  writes 
blatantly  concerning  commonplaces — regardless  of  music  or 
rhythm.  Here's  a  bit  of  him  concerning  the  taming  of  oxen. 
He  says  the  tamer  lives  in  a 

"  'Placid  pastoral  region. 
There  they  bring  him  the  three-year-olds  and  the  four-year-olds 
to  break  them — 


446  THELMA. 

Some  are  such  beautiful  animals,  so  lofty  looking — some  are  buff- 
colored,  some  mottled,  one  has  a  white  line  running  along 
his  back,  some  are  brindled. 

Some  have  wide  flaring  horns  (a  good  sign!)  look  you!  the  bright 
hides. 

See  the  two  with  stars  on  their  foreheads— see  the  round  bodies 
and  broad  backs 

How  straight  and  square  they  stand  on  their  legs — ' " 

"Stop,  stop!"  cried  Lorimer,  putting  his  hands  to  his  ears. 
"This  is  a  practical  joke,  Beau!  No  one  would  call  that  jar- 
gon poetry!" 

"Oh!  wouldn't  they  though!"  exclaimed  Lovelace.  "Let 
some  critic  of  reputation  once  start  the  idea,  and  you'll  have 
the  good  London  folk  who  won't  bother  to  read  him  for  them- 
selves declaring  him  as  fine  as  Shakespeare.  The  dear  Eng- 
lish muttons!  fine  Southdowns!  fleecy  baa-Iamhs!  once  let 
the  press-bell  tinkle  loudly  enough  across  the  fields  of  litera- 
ture, and  they'll  follow,  bleating  sweetly,  in  any  direction! 
The  sharpest  heads  in  our  big  metropolis  are  those  who  know 
this,  and  who  act  accordingly." 

"Then  why  don't  you  'act  accordingly'?"  asked  Errington, 
with  a  faint  smile. 

"Oh,  I?  I  can't!  I  never  asked  a  favor  from  the  press  in 
my  life — but  its  little  bell  has  tinkled  for  me  all  the  same,  and 
a  few  of  the  muttons  follow,  but  not  all.  Are  you  off?"  this 
as  they  rose  to  take  their  leave.  "Well,  Errington,  old  fellow," 
and  he  shook  hands  warmly,  "a  pleasant  journey  to  you,  and 
a  happy  return  home!  My  best  regards  to  your  wife.  Lori- 
mer, have  you  settled  whether  you'll  go  with  me  to  Italy?  I 
start  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

Lorimer  hesitated,  then  said:  "All  right!  My  mother's 
delighted  at  the  idea.  Yes,  Beau,  we'll  come.  Only  I  hope 
we  shan't  bore  you." 

"Bore  me!  you  know  me  better  than  that,"  and  he  accom- 
panied them  out  of  the  smoking-room  into  the  hall,  while 
Errington,  a  little  surprised  at  this  sudden  arrangement, 
observed: 

"Why,  George,  I  thought  you'd  be  here  when  we  came 
back  from  Norway — to — to  welcome  Thelma,  you  know!" 

George  laughed.     "My  dear  boy,  I  shan't  be  wanted!     Just 
let  me  know  how  everything  goes  on.     You — you  see,  I'm  in 
duty  bound  to  take  my  mother  out  of  London  in  winter." 
"Just  so!"  agreed  Lovelace,  who  had  watched  him  narrowly 


THELMA.  447 

while  he  spoke.  "Don't  grudge  the  old  lady  her  southern 
sunshine,  Errington!  Lorimer  wants  brushing  up  a  bit  too — • 
he  looks  seedy.  Then  I  shall  consider  it  settled — the  day 
after  to-morrow  we  meet  at  Charing  Cross — morning  tidal  ex- 
press, of  course — never  go  by  night  service  across  the  Chan- 
nel if  you  can  help  it." 

Again  they  shook  hands  and  parted. 

"Best  thing  that  young  fellow  can  do!"  thought  Lovelace 
as  he  returned  to  the  club  reading-room.  "The  sooner  he 
gets  out  of  this  into  new  scenes,  the  better;  he's  breaking 
his  heart  over  the  beautiful  Thelma.  By  Jove!  the  boy's  eyes 
looked  like  those  of  a  shot  animal  whenever  her  name  was 
mentioned.     He's  rather  badly  hit!" 

He  sat  down  and  began  to  meditate.  "What  can  I  do  for 
him,  I  wonder?"  he  thought.  "Nothing,  I  suppose.  A  love 
of  that  sort  can't  be  remedied.  It's  a  pity — a  great  pity! 
And  I  don't  know  any  woman  likely  to  make  a  counter- 
impression  on  him.  He'd  never  put  up  with  an  Italian 
beauty" — he  paused  in  his  reflections,  and  the  color  flushed  his 
broad,  handsome  brow,  as  the  dazzling  vision  of  a  sweet, 
piquant  face  with  liquid  dark  eyes  and  rippling  masses  of  rich 
brown  hair  came  flitting  before  him — "unless  he  saw  Angela," 
he  murmured  to  himself  softly — "and  he  will  not  see  her — 
besides,  Angela  loves  me!" 

And  after  this,  his  meditations  .seemed  to  be  particularly 
pleasant,  to  Judge  from  the  expression  of  his  features.  Beau 
was  by  no  means  ignorant  of  the  tender  passion — he  had  his 
own  little  romance,  as  beautiful  and  bright  as  a  summer-day 
— but  he  had  resolved  that  London,  with  its  love  of  gossip,  its 
scandal,  and  society  papers — London,  that  on  account  of  his 
popularity  as  a  writer,  watched  his  movements  and  chronicled 
his  doings  in  the  most  authoritative  and  incorrect  manner — 
London  should  have  no  chance  of  penetrating  into  the  secret 
of  his  private  life.  And  so  far  he  had  succeeded,  and  was 
likely  still  to  succeed. 

Meanwhile,  as  he  still  sat  in  blissful  reverie,  pretending  to 
read  a  newspaper,  though  his  thoughts  were  far  away  from  it, 
Errington  and  Lorimer  arrived  at  the  Midland  Station.  Britta 
was  already  there  with  the  luggage;  she  was  excited  and 
pleased;  her  spirits  had  risen  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  her 
mistress  soon  again — possibly,  she  thought  gladly,  they  might 
find  her  at  Hull — they  might  not  have  to  go  to  Norway  at  all. 


448  THELMA. 

The  train  came  "up  to  the  platform,  the  tickets  were  taken,  and 
Sir  Philip,  with  Britta,  entered  a  first-class  compartment, 
while  Lorimer  stood  outside  leaning  with  folded  arms  on  the 
carriage-window,  talking  cheerfully. 

"You'll  find  her  all  right,  Phil,  I'm  positive,"  he  said.  "I 
think  it's  very  probable  she  has  been  compelled  to  remain  at 
Hull;  and  even  at  the  worst,  Britta  can  guide  you  all  over 
Norway,  if  necessary.     Nothing  will  daunt  her." 

And  he  nodded  kindly  to  the  little  maid,  who  had  regained 
her  rosy  color  and  the  sparkle  of  her  eyes  in  the  eagerness 
she  felt  to  rejoin  her  beloved  "Froken."  The  engine-whistle 
gave  a  warning  shriek.  Philip  leaned  out  and  pressed  his 
friend's  hand  warmly. 

"Good-bye,  old  fellow!     I'll  write  to  you  in  Italy." 

"All  right — mind  you  do.  And  I  say — give  my  love  to 
Thelma!" 

Philip  smiled  and  promised.  The  train  began  to  move — 
slowly  at  first,  then  more  quickly,  till  with  clattering  uproar 
and  puffing  clouds  of  white  steam,  it  rushed  forth  from  the 
station,  winding  through  the  arches  like  a  black  snake,  till  it 
had  twisted  itself  rapidly  out  of  sight.  Lorimer,  left  alone, 
looked  after  it  wistfully,  with  a  heavy  weight  of  unuttered 
love  and  sorrow  at  his  heart,  and  as  he  at  last  turned  away, 
those  haunting  words  that  he  had  heard  under  the  pines  at  the 
Alten  Fjord  recurred  again  and  again  to  his  memory — the 
words  uttered  by  the  distraught  Sigurd — and  how  true  they 
were,  he  thought!  how  desperately,  cruelly  true! 

"Good  things  may  come  for  others — ^but  for  you,  the  heav- 
ens are  empty!" 


CHAPTEE  XIII. 

Honor  is  an  old-world  thing,  but  it  smells  sweet  to  those  in 
whose  haxid  it  is  strong. — Ouida. 

Disappointment  upon  disappointment  awaited  Errington  at 
Hull.  Unfortunately,  neither  he  nor  Britta  knew  of  the  ex- 
istence of  the  good  Norwegian  innkeeper,  Friedhof,  who  had 
assisted  Thelma  in  her  flight — and  all  their  persistent  and 
anxious  inquiries  elicited  no  news  of  her.     Moreover,  there 


THELMA.  449 

was  no  boat  of  any  kind  leaving  immediately  for  Norway — 
not  even  a  whaler  or  fishing-smack.  In  a  week's  time — pos- 
sibly later — there  would  be  a  steamer  starting  for  Christian- 
sund,  and  for  this  Errington,  though  almost  mad  with  im- 
patience, was  forced  to  wait.  And  in  the  meantime  he  roamed 
about  the  streets  of  Hull,  looking  eagerly  at  every  fair-haired 
woman  who  passed  him,  and  always  hoping  that  Thelma  her- 
self would  suddenly  meet  him  face  to  face  and  put  her  hands 
in  his.  He  wrote  to  Neville  and  told  him  to  send  on  any  let- 
ters that  might  arrive  for  him,  and  by  every  post  he  waited 
anxiously  for  one  from  Thelma,  but  none  came.  To  relieve 
his  mind  a  little,  he  scribbled  a  long  letter  to  her,  explaining 
everything,  telling  her  how  ardently  he  loved  and  worshiped 
her,  how  he  was  on  his  way  to  join  her  at  the  Alten  Fjord — 
and  ending  by  the  most  passionate  vows  of  unchanging  love 
and  fidelity.  He  was  somewhat  soothed  when  he  had  done 
this — though  he  did  not  realize  the  fact  that  in  all  probability 
he  himself  might  arrive  before  the  letter.  The  slow,  miserable 
days  went  on — the  week  was  completed — the  steamer  for 
Christiansund  started  at  last,  and,  after  a  terrible,  stormy 
passage,  he  and  the  faithful  Britta  were  landed  there. 

On  arrival  he  learned  that  a  vessel  bound  for  the  North 
Cape  had  left  on  the  previous  day — there  would  not  be  an- 
other for  a  fortnight.  Cursing  his  ill-luck,  he  resolved  to 
reach  the  Alten  Fjord  by  land,  and  began  to  make  arrange- 
ments accordingly.  Those  who  knew  the  country  well  en- 
deavored to  dissuade  him  from  this  desperate  project — ^the 
further  north,  the  greater  danger,  they  told  him — moreover, 
the  weather  was,  even  for  Norway,  exceptionally  trying. 
Snow  lay  heavily  over  all  the  country  he  would  have  to 
traverse — the  only  means  of  conveyance  was  by  carriole  or 
pulkha — the  latter  a  sort  of  sledge  used  by  the  Laplanders, 
made  in  the  form  of  a  boat,  and  generally  drawn  by  reindeer. 
The  capabilities  of  the  carriole  would  be  exhausted  as  soon  as 
the  snow-covered  regions  were  reached,  and  to  manage  a 
pulkha  successfully  required  special  skill  of  no  ordinary  kind. 
But  the  courageous  little  Britta  made  short  work  of  all  these 
difficulties — she  could  drive  a  pulkha — she  knew  how  to  man- 
age reindeer — she  entertained  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  being 
able  to  overcome  all  the  obstacles  on  the  way.  At  the  same 
time,  she  frankly  told  Sir  Philip  that  the  journey  would  be  a 
long  one,  perhaps  occupying  several  days,  that  they  would 

29 


450  THELMA. 

have  to  rest  at  different  farms  or  stations  on  the  road,  and  put 
up  with  hard  fare — that  the  cold  would  be  intense,  that  often 
they  would  find  it  difficult  to  get  relays  of  the  required  rein- 
deer— and  that  it  might  perhaps  be  wiser  to  wait  for  the  next 
boat  going  to  the  North  Cape. 

But  Errington  would  hear  of  no  more  delays — each  hour 
that  passed  filled  him  with  fresh  anxieties — and  once  in  Nor- 
way he  could  not  rest.  The  idea  that  Thelma  might  be  ill — 
dying — or  dead — gained  on  him  with  redoubled  force;  and  his 
fears  easily  communicating  themselves  to  Britta,  who  was  to 
the  full  as  impatient  as  he,  the  two  made  up  their  minds,  and 
providing  every  necessary  for  the  journey  they  could  think  of, 
they  started  for  the  far  sunless  North,  through  a  white,  frozen 
land,  which  grew  whiter  and  more  silent  the  further  they 
went,  even  as  the  brooding  sky  above  them  grew  darker  and 
darker.  The  aurora  borealis  flashed  its  brilliant  shafts  of 
color  against  the  sable  breast  of  heaven,  the  tall  pines,  stripped 
bare,  every  branch  thick  with  snow  and  dropping  icicles,  stood 
— pale  ghosts  of  the  forest — shedding  frozen  tears;  the  moon, 
more  like  steel  than  silver,  shone  frostily  cold,  her  light  seem- 
ing to  deepen  rather  than  soften  the  dreariness  of  the  land — 
and  on — on — on — they  went,  Britta  enveloped  to  the  chin  in 
furs,  steadily  driving  the  strange  elfin-looking  steeds  with 
their  horned  heads  casting  long  distorted  shadows  on  the 
white  ground — and  Philip  beside  her,  urging  her  on  with 
feverish  impatience,  while  he  listened  to  the  smooth  trot  of 
the  reindeer,  the  tinkle  of  the  bells  on  their  harness,  and  the 
hiss  of  the  sledge  across  the  sparkling  snow. 

Meanwhile,  as  he  thus  pursued  his  long  and  difficult  jour- 
ney, rumor  was  very  busy  with  his  name  in  London.  Every- 
body— that  is,  everybody  worth  consideration  in  the  circle  of 
the  "Upper  Ten" — was  talking  about  him,  shrugging  their 
shoulders,  lifting  their  eyebrows  and  smiling  knowingly, 
whenever  he  was  mentioned.  He  became  more  known  in  one 
day  than  if  he  had  served  his  country's  interests  in  Parlia- 
ment for  years. 

On  the  very  morning  after  he  had  left  the  metropolis  on 
route  for  Norway,  that  admirably  conducted  society  journal, 
the  "Snake,"  appeared — and  of  course,  had  its  usual  amount 
of  eager  purchasers,  anxious  to  see  the  latest  bit  of  aristocratic 
scandal.  Often  these  good  folks  were  severely  disappointed 
— the  "Snake"  was  sometimes  so  frightfully  dull  that  it  had 


THELMA.  451 

actually  nothing  to  say  against  anybody — then,  naturally,  it 
was  not  worth  buying.  But  this  time  it  was  really  interesting 
— it  knocked  down — or  tried  to  knock  down — at  one  blow,  a 
formerly  spotless  reputation — and  "really — really!"  said  the 
Upper  Ten,  "it  was  dreadful,  but  of  course  it  was  to  be  ex- 
pected! Those  quiet,  seemingly  virtuous  persons  are  always 
the  worst  when  you  come  to  know  them,  yet  who  would  have 
thought  it!"  And  society  read  the  assailing  paragraph  and 
rolled  it  in  its  rank  mouth  like  a  bon-bon,  enjoying  its  flavor. 
It  ran  as  follows: 

"We  hear  on  excellent  authority  that  the  Norwegian 
'beauty,'  Lady  Bruce-Errington,  wife  of  Sir  Philip  Bruce- 
Errington,  is  about  to  sue  for  a  divorce  on  the  ground  of  in- 
fidelity. The  ofi'ending  dama  in  the  question  is  an  admired 
actress,  well  known  to  the  frequenters  of  the  Brilliant  Theater. 
But  there  are  always  two  sides  to  these  affairs,  and  it  is 
rumored  that  the  fair  Norwegian  (who  before  her  marriage, 
we  understand,  was  a  great  adept  in  the  art  of  milking  rein- 
deer on  the  shore  of  her  native  fjord)  has  private  reasons  of 
her  own  for  desiring  the  divorce  not  altogether  in  keeping 
with  her  stated  reasons  for  her  apparent  reserve.  We  are, 
however,  always  on  the  side  of  the  fair  sex,  and,  as  the  faith- 
less husband  has  made  no  secret  of  his  new  liaison,  we  do  not 
hesitate  to  at  once  pronounce  in  the  lady's  favor.  The  case 
is  likely  to  prove  interesting  to  believers  in  wedded  happiness, 
combined  with  the  strictest  moral  and  religious  sentiments." 

Quite  by  accident  this  piece  of  would-be  "smartness"  was 
seen  by  Beau  Lovelace.  He  had  a  wholesome  contempt  for 
the  "Snake" — and  all  its  class — he  would  never  have  looked 
at  it,  or  known  of  the  paragraph,  had  not  a  friend  of  his  at  the 
Garrick  pointed  it  out  to  him  with  half  a  smile  and  half  a 
sneer. 

"It's  a  damned  lie!"  said  Beau,  briefly. 

"That  remains  to  be  proved!"  answered  his  friend,  and  went 
away  laughing. 

Beau  read  it  over  and  over  again,  his  blood  firing  with 
honest  indignation. 

Thelma!  Thelma — that  pure  white  lily  of  womanhood — was 
she  to  have  her  stainless  life  blurred  by  the  trail  of  such  a 
thing  as  the  "Snake"? — and  was  Errington's  honor  to  be  at- 
tainted in  his  absence,  and  he  condemned  without  a  word 
uttered  in  his  defense? 


452  THELMA. 

"Destestable  blackguard!"  muttered  Lovelace,  reverting  in 
his  mind  to  the  editor  of  the  journal  in  question.  "What's 
his  name,  I  wonder?"  He  searched  and  found  it  at  the  top  of 
a  column — "Sole  Editor  and  Proprietor,  C.  Snawley-Grubbs, 
to  whom  all  checks  and  post-office  orders  should  be  made  pay- 
able. The  editor  can  not  be  responsible  for  the  return  of  re- 
jected MSS." 

Beau  noted  the  name  and  wrote  the  address  of  the  office  in 
his  pocket-book,  smiling  curiously  to  himself  the  while. 

"I'm  almost  glad  Errington's  out  of  the  way,"  he  said,  half 
aloud.  "He  shan't  see  this  thing  if  I  can  help  it,  though  I 
dare  say  some  particularly  affectionate  friend  will  send  it  to 
him,  carefully  marked.  At  any  rate,  he  needn't  know  it  just 
yet;  and  as  for  Lorimer — shall  I  tell  him?  No,  I  won't.  I'll 
have  the  game  all  to  myself — and — by  Jove!  how  I  shall  enjov 
it!" 

An  hour  later  he  stood  in  the  office  of  the  "Snake,"  courte- 
ously inquiring  for  Mr.  Snawley-Grubbs.  Apparently  he  had 
come  on  horseback,  for  he  held  a  riding-whip  in  his  hand — 
the  very  whip  Errington  had  left  with  him  the  previous  day. 
The  inky,  dirty,  towzle-headed  boy  who  presided  in  solitary 
grandeur  over  the  "Snake's"  dingy  premises  stared  at  him  in- 
quiringly— visitors  of  his  distinguished  appearance  and  man- 
ner being  rather  uncommon.  Those  who  usually  had  business 
with  the  great  Grubbs  were  of  a  different  type  altogether — 
some  of  them  discarded  valets  or  footmen,  who  came  to  gain 
half  a  crown  or  five  shillings  by  offering  information  as  to  the 
doings  of  their  late  masters  and  mistresses — shabby  "supers" 
from  the  theaters,  who  had  secured  the  last  bit  of  scandal  con- 
cerning some  celebrated  stage  or  professional  "beauty''*— 
sporting  men  and  turf  gamblers  of  the  lowest  class — un- 
successful dramatists  and  small  verse  writers — these,  with  now 
and  then  a  few  "ladies" — ladies  of  the  bar-room,  ballet,  and 
demi-monde,  were  the  sort  of  persons  who  daily  sought  private 
converse  with  Grubbs — and  Beau  Lovelace,  with  his  massive 
head,  fine  muscular  figure,  keen  eyes,  and  self-assertive  mien, 
was  quite  a  novel  specimen  of  manhood  for  the  wondering 
observation  of  the  office-boy,  who  scrambled  off  his  high  chair , 
with  haste  and  something  of  respect  as  he  said: 

"What  name,  sir,  please?" 

"Beaufort  Lovelace,"  said  the  gentleman,  with  a  bland  smile. 
"Here  is  my  card.     Ask  Mr.  Grubbs  whether  he  can  see  me 


THELMA.  453 


for  a  few  minutes.  If  he  is  engaged — editors  generally  are 
engaged — tell  him  I'll  wait." 

The  boy  went  off  in  a  greater  hurry  than  ever.  The  name 
of  Lovelace  was  quite  familiar  to  him — ^he  knew  him,  not  as  a 
distinguished  novelist,  but  as  "  'im  who  makes  such  a  precious 
lot  of  money,"  And  he  was  breathless  with  excitement  when 
he  reached  the  small  editorial  chamber  at  the  top  of  a  dark, 
narrow  flight  of  stairs  wherein  sat  the  autocratic  Snawley, 
smiling  suavely  over  a  heap  of  letters  and  disordered  MSS. 
He  glanced  at  the  card  which  his  ink-smeared  attendant  pre- 
sented him. 

"Ah,  indeed!"  he  said,  condescendingly.  "Lovelace — 
Lovelace?  Oh,  yes — I  suppose  it  must  be  the  novelist  of  that 
name — yes! — show  him  up." 

Shown  up  he  was  accordingly.  He  entered  the  room  with 
a  firm  tread,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"How  do  you  do,  my  dear  sir!"  exclaimed  Grubbs,  warmly. 
"You  are  well  known  to  me  by  reputation!  I  am  charmed — 
delighted  to  make  the  personal  acquaintance  of  one  who  is — 
yes — let  me  say,  who  is  a  brother  in  literature!  Sit  down,  I 
beg  of  you!" 

And  he  waved  his  hand  toward  a  chair,  thereby  displaying 
the  great  rings  that  glittered  on  his  podgy  fingers. 

Beau,  however,  did  not  seat  himself — he  only  smiled  very 
coldly  and  contemptuously. 

"We  can  discuss  the  fraternal  nature  of  our  relationship 
afterward,"  he  said,  satirically.  "Business  first.  Pray,  sir" — 
here  he  drew  from  his  pocket  the  last  number  of  the  "Snake" 
— "are  you  the  writer  of  this  paragraph?" 

He  pointed  to  it,  as  he  flattened  the  journal  and  laid  it  in 
front  of  the  editor  on  his  desk.  Mr.  Snawley-Grubbs  glanced 
at  it  and  smiled  unconcernedly. 

"No,  I  am  not.  But  I  happen  to  know  it  is  perfectly  cor- 
rect. I  received  the  information  on  the  highest — the  very 
highest  and  most  credible  authority." 

"Indeed!"  and  Beau's  lip  curled  haughtily,  while  his  hand 
clinched  the  horsewhip  more  firmly.  "Then  allow  me  to  tell 
you,  sir,  that  it  is  utterly  false  in  every  particular — moreover, 
that  it  is  a  gross  libel,  published  with  deliberate  intent  to  in- 
jure those  whom  it  presumes  to  mention — and  that,  whoever 
wrote  it — you,  sir,  you  alone  are  responsible  for  a  most  mis- 
chievous, scandalous,  and  damnable  lie!" 


454  THELMA. 

Mr.  Grubbs  was  in  nowise  disconcerted.  Honest  indigna- 
tion honestly  expressed  always  amused  him — he  was  amused 
now. 

"You're  unduly  excited^  Mr.  Lovelace/'  he  said  with  a  little 
laugh.  "Permit  me  to  remark  that  your  language  is  rather 
extraordinary — quite  too  strong  under  the  circumstances! 
However,  you're  a  privileged  person — genius  is  always  a  lit- 
tle mad,  or  shall  we  say — eccentric?  I  suppose  you  are  a 
friend  of  Sir  Philip  Errington,  and  you  naturally  feel  hurt — 
yes — yes,  I  quite  understand!  But  the  scourge  of  the  press — 
the  wholesome,  purifying  scourge,  can  not  be  withheld  out 
of  consideration  for  private  or  personal  feelings.  No — no! 
There's  a  higher  duty — the  duty  we  owe  to  the  public!" 

"I  tell  you  again,"  repeated  Lovelace,  firmly,  "the  whole 
thing  is  a  lie.     Will  you  apologize?" 

Mr.  Grubbs  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed 
aloud. 

"Apologize?  My  dear  sir,  you  must  be  dreaming!  Apolo- 
gize? Certainly  not!  I  can  not  retract  the  statements  I  have 
made — and  I  firmly  believe  them  to  be  true.  And  though 
there  is  a  saying,  'the  greater  the  truth  the  greater  the  libel,' 
I'm  ready,  sir,  and  always  have  been  ready,  to  sacrifice  my- 
self to  the  cause  of  truth.  Truth,  truth  forever!  Tell  the 
truth  and  shame  the  devil!  You  are  at  liberty  to  inform  Sir 
Philip  Errington  from  me  that  as  it  is  my  object — a  laudable 
and  praiseworthy  one,  too,  I  think — to  show  up  the  awful  im- 
morality now  reigning  in  our  upper  classes,  I  do  not  regret  in 
the  least  the  insertion  of  the  paragraph  in  question.  If  it 
only  makes  him  ashamed  of  his  vices,  I  shall  have  done  a  good 
deed,  and  served  the  interests  of  society  at  large.  At  the 
same  time,  if  he  wishes  to  bring  an  action  for  libel — " 

"You  dog!"  exclaimed  Lovelace,  fiercely,  approaching  him 
with  such  a  sudden  rapid  stride  that  the  astonished  editor 
sprung  up  and  barricaded  himself  behind  his  own  chair. 
"You  hope  for  that,  do  you?  An  action  for  libel!  nothing 
would  please  you  better!  To  bring  your  scandalous  printed 
trash  into  notoriety — to  hear  your  name  shouted  by  dirty 
hawkers  and  newsboys — to  be  sentenced  as  a  first-class  mis- 
demeanant; ah,  no  such  luck  for  you!  I  know  the  tricks  of 
your  vile  trade!  There  are  other  ways  of  dealing  with  a  vul- 
gar bully  and  coward!" 

And  before  the  startled  Grubbs  could  realize  his  position. 


THELMA.  455 

Lovelace  closed  with  him,  bent  him  under,  and  struck  the 
horsewhip  smartly  across  his  back  and  shoulders.  He  uttered 
a  yell  of  pain  and  fury,  and  strove  vigorously  to  defend  him- 
self, but,  owing  to  his  obesity,  his  muscles  were  weak  and 
flabby,  and  he  was  powerless  against  the  activity  and  strength 
of  his  opponent.  Lash  after  lash  descended  regularly  and 
mercilessly — his  cries,  which  gradually  became  like  the  roar- 
ings of  a  bull  of  Bashan,  were  unheard,  as  the  office-boy  be- 
low, profiting  by  a  few  idle  moments,  had  run  across  the 
street  to  buy  some  chestnuts  at  a  stall  he  particularly  patron- 
ized. Beau  thrashed  on  with  increasing  enjoyment — Grubbs 
resisted  him  less  and  less,  till  finally  he  slipped  feebly  down 
on  the  floor  and  groveled  there,  gasping  and  groaning.  Beau 
gave  him  one  or  two  more  artistic  cuts,  and  stood  above  him, 
with  the  serene,  triumphant  smile  of  a  successful  athlete. 
Suddenly  a  loud  peal  of  laughter  echoed  from  the  door- way — • 
a  woman  stood  there,  richly  dressed  in  silk  and  fur,  with  dia- 
monds sparkling  in  her  ears  and  diamonds  clasping  the 
long  boa  at  her  throat.    It  was  Violet  Vere. 

"Why,  Snawley!"  she  cried  with  cheerful  familiarity. 
"How  are  you?  All  broken,  and  no  one  to  pick  up  the  pieces! 
Serve  you  right!  Got  it  at  last,  eh?  Don't  get  up!  You  look 
so  comfortable!" 

"Bodily  assault,"  gasped  Grubbs.  "I'll  summons — call  the 
police — call,"  his  voice  died  away  in  inarticulate  gurglings,  and 
raising  himself,  he  sat  up  on  the  floor  in  a  sufficiently  abject 
and  ludicrous  posture,  wiping  the  tears  of  pain  from  his  eyes. 
Beau  looked  at  the  female  intruder  and  recognized  her  at 
once.  He  saluted  her  with  cold  courtesy,  and  turned  again  to 
Grubbs. 

"Will  you  apologize?" 

"No— I— I  won't!" 

Beau  made  another  threatening  movement — Miss  Vera 
interposed. 

"Stop  a  bit,"  she  said,  regarding  him  with  her  insolent  eyes, 
in  which  lurked,  however,  an  approving  smile.  "I  don't  know 
who  you  are,  but  you  seem  a  fighting  man!  Don't  go  at  him 
again  till  I've  had  a  word.  I  say,  Grubbs!  you've  been  hit- 
ting at  me  in  your  trashy  paper." 

Grubbs  still  sat  on  the  floor  groaning. 

"You  must  eat  those  words,"  went  on  the  Vere  calmly. 
"Eat  'em  up  with  sauce  for  dinner.     The  'admired  actress 


456  THELMA. 

well  known  at  the  Brilliant'  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
Bruce-Errington  man — not  she!  He's  a  duffer — a  regular  stiff 
one — no  go  about  him  anyhow.  And  what  the  deuce  do  you 
mean  by  calling  me  an  offending  dama?  Keep  your  oaths  to 
j^ourself,  will  you?" 

Beau  Lovelace  was  amused.  Grubbs  turned  his  watering 
eyes  from  one  to  the  other  in  wretched  perplexity.  He  made 
an  effort  to  stand  up  and  succeeded. 

"I'll  have  you  arrested,  sir!"  he  exclaimed,  shaking  his  fist 
at  Beau,  and  quivering  with  passion,  "on  a  charge  of  bodily 
assault — shameful  bodily  assault,  sir!" 

"All  right!"  returned  Beau,  coolly.  "If  I  were  fined  a  hun- 
dred pounds  for  it,  I  should  think  it  cheap  for  the  luxury  of 
thrashing  such  a  hound!" 

Grubbs  quaked  at  the  determined  attitude  and  threatening 
eye  of  his  assailant,  and  turned  for  relief  to  Miss  Vere,  whose 
smile,  however,  was  not  sympathetic. 

"You'd  better  cave  in!"  she  remarked,  airily.  "You've  got 
the  worst  of  it,  you  know!" 

She  had  long  been  on  confidential  terms  with  the  "Snake" 
proprietor,  and  she  spoke  to  him  now  with  the  candor  of  an 
old  friend. 

"Dear  me,  what  do  you  expect  of  me?"  he  almost  whim- 
pered. "I'm  not  to  blame!  The  paragraph  was  inserted 
without  my  knowledge  by  my  sub-editor — he's  away  just  now, 
and — there! — why,"  he  cried  ^vith  sudden  defiance,  "why  don't 
you  ask  Sir  Francis  Lennox  about  it?  He  wrote  the  whole 
thing." 

"Well,  he's  dead,"  said  Miss  Vere  with  the  utmost  coolness. 
"So  it  wouldn't  be  much  use  asking  him.  He  can't  answer — 
you'll  have  to  answer  for  him." 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Grubbs.  "He  can't  be 
dead!" 

"Oh,  yes  he  can,  and  he  is,"  retorted  Violet.  "And  a  good 
job,  too!  He  was  knocked  over  by  a  train  at  Charing  Cross. 
You'll  see  it  in  to-day's  paper,  if  j^ou  take  the  trouble  to  look. 
And  mind  you  contradict  all  that  stuff  about  me  in  your  next 
number — do  you  hear?  I'm  going  to  America  with  a  duke 
next  month,  and  I  can't  afford  to  have  my  reputation  injured. 
And  I  won't  be  called  a  'dama'  for  any  penny-a-liner  living." 
She  paused,  and  again  broke  out  laughing:  "Poor  old  Snaw- 
ley!    You  do  look  so  sore!    Ta-ta!"    And  she  moved  toward 


THELMA.  457 

the  door.  Lovelace,  always  courteous,  opened  it  for  her.  She 
raised  her  hard,  bright  eyes,  and  smiled. 

"Thanks!    Hope  I  shall  see  you  again  some  day!" 

"You  are  very  good!"  responded  Beau,  gravely. 

Either  his  tone,  which  was  one  of  chill  indifference,  or 
something  in  his  look,  irritated  her  suddenly — for  a  rush  of 
hot  color  crimsoned  her  face,  and  she  bit  her  lips  vexedly  as 
she  descended  the  office  stairs. 

"He's  one  of  our  high-and-mighty  sort,"  she  thought  dis- 
dainfully, as  she  entered  her  cozy  brougham  and  was  driven 
away.  "Quite  too  awfully  moral!"  She  pulled  a  large,  elab- 
orately cut-glass  scent-bottle  out  of  the  pocket  of  her  cloak, 
and,  unscrewing  the  gold  top,  applied  it,  not  to  her  nose,  but 
her  mouth.  It  contained  neat  Cognac — and  she  drank  a 
goodly  gulp  of  it  with  evident  relish,  swallowing  a  scented 
bon-bon  immediately  afterward  to  take  away  the  suspicious 
odor.  "Yes — quite  too  awfully  moral!"  she  repeated  with  a 
grin.  "Not  in  my  line  at  all!  Lord!  It's  lucky  there  are  not 
many  such  fellows  about,  or  what  would  become  of  me?  A 
precious  poor  business  I  should  make  of  it!" 

Meanwhile,  Lovelace,  left  alone  again  with  Mr.  Grubbs,  re- 
iterated his  demand  for  an  apology.  Grubbs  made  a  rush  for 
the  door  as  soon  as  Miss  Vere  had  gone,  with  the  full  inten- 
tion of  summoning  the  police,  but  Beau  coolly  placed  his  back 
against  it  with  resolute  firmness,  and  flourished  his  whip  de- 
fiantly. 

"Come,  sir,  none  of  this  nonsense!"  he  said,  sternly.  "I 
don't  mean  to  leave  this  spot  till  I  have  satisfaction.  If  Sir 
Francis  Lennox  wrote  that  scandalous  paragraph  the  greater 
rascal  he,  and  the  more  shame  to  you  for  inserting  it.  You, 
who  make  it  your  business  to  know  all  the  dirty  alleys  and 
dark  corners  of  life,  must  have  known  his  character  pretty 
thoroughly.  There's  not  the  slightest  excuse  for  you.  Will 
you  apologize — and  retract  every  word  of  that  paragraph  in 
your  next  issue?" 

Grubbs,  breathless  with  rage  and  fear,  glared  at  him,  but 
made  no  answer. 

"If  you  refuse  to  comply,"  went  on  Beau,  deliberately, 
balancing  the  horsewhip  lightly  on  his  hand,  "I'll  just  tell 
you  what  the  consequences  will  be.  I've  thrashed  you  once — 
and  I'll  thrash  you  again.  I  have  only  to  give  the  cue  to  sev- 
eral worthy  fellows  of  my  acquaintance,  who  don't  care  how 


458  THELMA. 

much  they  pay  for  their  fun,  and  each  of  them  in  turn  will 
thrash  you.  As  for  an  action  for  libel,  don't  expect  it — but  I 
swear  there  shan't  be  a  safe  corner  in  London  for  you.  If, 
however,  you  publish  next  week  a  full  retraction  of  your 
printed  lie — why,  then — I  shall  be  only  too  happy  to  forget 
that  such  an  individual  as  yourself  burdens  this  planet.  There 
are  the  two  alternatives — choose!" 

Grubbs  hesitated,  but  coward  fear  made  him  quail  at  the 
prospect  of  unlimited  thrashings. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  sullenly.  "Write  what  you  want  put 
in — I'll  attend  to  it — I  don't  mind  obliging  Miss  Vere.  But 
all  the  same,  I'll  have  you  arrested!" 

Beau  laughed.  "Do  so  by  all  means!"  he  said,  gayly.  "I'll 
leave  my  address  with  you!"  He  wrote  rapidly  a  few  lines  on 
a  piece  of  paper  to  the  following  effect: 

"We  have  to  entirely  contradict  a  statement  we  made  last 
week  respecting  a  supposed  forthcoming  divorce  case,  in  which 
Sir  Philip  Bruce-Errington  was  seriously  implicated.  There 
was  no  truth  whatever  in  the  statement,  and  we  herewith 
apologize  most  humbly  and  heartily  for  having  inadvertently 
given  credence  to  a  rumor  which  is  now  proved  to  be  utterly 
false  and  without  the  slightest  shadow  of  a  foundation." 

He  handed  this  to  Grubbs. 

"Insert  that,  word  for  word,  at  the  head  of  your  para- 
graphs/' he  said,  "and  you'll  hear  no  more  of  me,  unless  you 
give  me  fresh  provocation.  And  I  advise  you  to  think  twice 
before  you  have  me  arrested — for  I'll  defend  my  own  case,  and 
— ruin  you!  I'm  rather  a  dangerous  customer  to  have  much 
to  do  with!  However,  you've  got  my  card — you  know  where 
to  find  me  if  you  want  me.  Only  you'd  better  send  after  me  to- 
night if  you  do — to-morrow  I  may  be  absent." 

He  smiled  and  drew  on  his  gloves  leisurely,  eying  mean- 
while the  discomfited  editor,  who  was  furtively  rubbing  his 
shoulder  where  the  lash  had  stung  it  somewhat  severely. 

"I'm  exceedingly  glad  I've  hurt  you,  Mr.  Grubbs,"  he  said, 
blandly.  "And  the  next  time  you  want  to  call  me  your 
brother  in  literature,  pray  reflect  on  the  manner  in  which 
my  fraternal  affection  displayed  itself.    Good-morning!" 

And  he  took  his  departure  with  a  quiet  step  and  serene 
manner,   leaving   Snawley-Grubbs   to   his   own   meditations, 


THELMA.  459 

which  were  far  from  agreeable.  He  was  not  ignorant  of  the 
influence  Beau  Lovelace  possessed,  both  on  the  press  and  in 
society — he  was  a  general  favorite — a  man  whose  opinions 
were  quoted,  and  whose  authority  was  accepted  everywhere. 
If  he  appeared  to  answer  a  charge  of  assault  against  Grubbs, 
and  defended  his  own  case,  he  certainly  would  have  the  best 
of  it.  He  might — he  would  have  to  pay  a  fine,  but  what  did 
he  care  for  that?  He  would  hold  up  the  "Snake"  and  its  pro- 
prietor to  the  utmost  ridicule  and  opprobrium — his  brilliant 
satire  and  humor  would  carry  all  before  it — and  he,  Snawley- 
Grubbs,  would  be  still  more  utterly  routed  and  humiliated. 
Weighing  all  these  considerations  carefully  in  his  mind,  the 
shrinking  editor  decided  to  sit  down  under  his  horsewhipping 
in  silence  and  resignation. 

It  was  not  a  very  lofty  mode  of  action — still,  it  was  the 
safest.  Of  course  Violet  Vere  would  spread  the  story  all 
through  her  particular  "set" — it  made  him  furious  to  think  of 
this,  yet  there  was  no  help  for  it.  He  would  play  the  martyr, 
he  thought — the  martyr  to  the  cause  of  truth — the  injured 
innocent  entrapped  by  false  information — he  might  possibly 
gain  new  supporters  and  sympathizers  in  this  way  if  he  played 
his  cards  carefully.  He  turned  to  the  daily  paper,  and  saw 
there  chronicled  the  death  of  Sir  Francis  Lennox.  It  was 
true,  theni  Well!  he  was  not  at  all  affected  by  it — he  merely 
committed  the  dead  man  in  the  briefest  and  strongest  lan- 
guage to  the  very  lowest  of  those  low  and  sulphurous  regions 
over  which  Satan  is  supposed  to  have  full  sway.  Not  a  soul 
regretted  Sir  Francis — not  even  the  Vere,  whom  he  had  kept 
and  surrounded  with  every  luxury  for  five  years.  Only  one 
person,  a  fair,  weary-faced  woman  away  in  Germany,  shed  a 
few  tears  over  the  lawyer's  black-bordered  letter  that  an- 
nounced his  death  to  her — and  this  was  the  deserted  wife  who 
had  once  loved  him.  Lady  Winsleigh  had  heard  the  news — 
she  shuddered  and  turned  very  pale  when  her  husband  gently 
and  almost  pityingly  told  her  of  the  sudden  and  unprepared 
end  that  had  overtaken  her  quondam  admirer — but  she  said 
nothing.  She  was  presiding  at  the  breakfast-table  for  the  first 
time  in  many  years;  she  looked  somewhat  sad  and  listless,  yet 
lovelier  so  than  in  all  the  usual  pride  and  assertive  arrogance 
of  her  beauty.  Lord  Winsleigh  read  aloud  the  brief  account 
of  the  accident  in  the  paper — she  listened  dreamily-— still 
mute.    He  watched  her  with  yearning  eyes. 


460  THELMA. 

"An  awful  death  for  such  a  man,  Clara!"  he  said  at  last  in 
a  low  tone. 

She  dared  not  look  up — she  was  trembling  nervously.  How 
dreadful  it  was,  she  thought,  to  be  thankful  that  a  man  was 
dead! — to  feel  a  relief  at  his  being  no  longer  in  this  world! 
Presently  her  husband  spoke  again  more  reservedly. 

"No  doubt  you  are  greatly  shocked  and  grieved,"  he  said. 
"I  should  not  have  told  you  so  suddenly — pardon  me!" 

"I  am  not  grieved,"  she  murmured,  unsteadily.  "It  sounds 
horrible  to  say  so — but  I — I  am  afraid  I  am  glad!" 

"Clara!" 

She  rose  and  came  tremblingly  toward  him.  She  knelt  at 
his  feet,  though  he  strove  to  prevent  her — she  raised  her  large, 
dark  eyes,  full  of  dull  agony,  to  his. 

"I've  been  a  wicked  woman,  Harry,"  she  said,  with  a 
strange,  imploring  thrill  of  passion  in  her  voice.  "I  am  down 
— down  in  the  dust  before  you!  Look  at  me — don't  forgive 
me — I  won't  ask  that — you  can't  forgive  me — but  pity  me!" 

He  took  her  hands  and  laid  them  round  his  neck — he  drew 
her  gently,  soothingly — closer,  closer,  till  he  pressed  her  to 
his  heart. 

"Down  in  the  dust,  are  you  ?"  he  whispered,  brokenly.  "My 
poor  wife!    God  forbid  that  I  should  keep  you  there!" 


THELMA.  461 


JBOOPC    III. 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  LONG  SHADOW. 


CHAPTEK  I. 


They  have  the  night,  who  had,  like  us,  the  day — 
We,  whom  day  binds,  shall  have  the  night  as  they — 
We,  from  the  fetters  of  the  light  unbound. 
Healed  of   our  wound   of   living,   shall   sleep   sound! 

SWINBTJBNE. 

Night  on  the  Alten  Fjord — the  long,  long,  changeless  night 
of  winter.  The  sharp  snow-covered  crests  of  the  mountains 
rose  in  white  appeal  against  the  darkness  of  the  sky — the  wild 
north  wind  tore  through  the  leafless  branches  of  the  pine- 
forests,  bringing  with  it  driving  pellets  of  stinging  hail.  Joy- 
less and  songless  the  whole  landscape  lay  as  though  frozen 
into  scvilptured  stone.  The  sun  slept,  and  the  fjord,  black 
with  brooding  shadows,  seemed  silently  to  ask — where? 
Where  was  the  great  king  of  Light — the  glorious  god  of  the 
golden  hair  and  ruddy  countenance — the  glittering  warrior 
with  the  flaming  shield  and  spear  invisible?  Where  had  he 
found  his  rest?  By  what  strange  enchantment  had  he  fallen 
into  so  deep  and  long  a  drowsiness?  The  wind,  that  had 
rioted  across  the  mountains,  rooting  up  great  trees  in  its 
shrieking  career  northward,  grew  hushed  as  it  approached  the 
Alten  Fjord — there  a  weird  stillness  reigned,  broken  only  by 
the  sullen  and  monotonous  plash  of  the  invisible  waves  upon 
the  scarcely  visible  shore, 

A  few"  tiny,  twinkling  lights  showed  the  irregular  outline  of 
Bosekop,  and  now  and  then  one  or  two  fishing-boats  with 
sable  sails  and  small  colored  lamps  at  mast  and  prow  would 
flit  across  the  inky  water  like  dark  messengers  from  another 
world  bound  on  some  mournful  errand.  Human  figures,  more 
shadowy  than  real,  were  to  be  seen  occasionally  moving  on 


462  THELMA. 

the  pier,  and  to  the  left  of  the  little  town,  as  the  eye  grew 
accustomed  to  the  moveless  gloom,  a  group  of  persons,  like 
ghosts  in  a  dream,  could  be  dimly  perceived,  working  busily 
at  the  mending  of  nets. 

Suddenly  a  strange,  unearthly  glow  flashed  over  the  somber 
scene — a  rosy  radiance  deepening  to  brilliant  streaks  of  fire. 
The  dark  heavens  were  torn  asunder,  and  through  them 
streamed  flaring  pennons  of  light — waving,  trembling,  danc- 
ing, luminous  ribbons  of  red,  blue,  green,  and  a  delicious 
amber,  like  the  flowing  of  golden  wine — wider,  higher,  more 
dazzlingly  lustrous,  the  wondrous  glory  shone  aloft,  rising 
upward  from  the  horizon — thrusting  long  spears  of  lambent 
flame  among  the  murky  retreating  clouds,  till  in  one  magnifi- 
cent coruscation  of  resplendent  beams  a  blazing  arch  of  gold 
leaped  from  east  to  west,  spanning  the  visible  breadth  of  the 
fjord,  and  casting  toward  the  white  peaks  above  vivid 
sparkles  and  reflections  of  jewel-like  brightness  and  color. 
Here  was  surely  the  rainbow  Bridge  of  Odin — the  glittering 
pathway  leading  to  Valhalla!  Long  filmy  threads  of  emerald 
and  azure  trailed  downward  from  it,  like  ropes  of  fairy  flow- 
ers, binding  it  to  the  earth;  above  it  hung  a  fleece-like  nebu- 
lous whiteness — a  canopy  through  which  palpitated  sudden 
flashes  of  amethyst.  Then,  as  though  the  arch  were  a  bent 
bow  for  the  hand  of  some  heavenly  hunter,  crimson  beams 
darted  across  it  in  swift  succession,  like  arrows  shot  at  the 
dark  target  of  the  world.  Eound  and  round  swept  the  varying 
circles  of  color — now  advancing — now  retreating — now  turn- 
ing the  sullen  waters  beneath  into  a  quivering  mass  of  steely 
green — now  beating  against  the  snow-covered  hills  till  they 
seemed  pinnacles  of  heaped-up  pearls  and  diamonds.  The 
whole  landscape  was  transformed,  and  the  shadowy  cluster  of 
men  and  women  on  the  shore  paused  in  their  toil,  and  turned 
their  pale  faces  toward  the  rippling  splendor — the  heavy  fish- 
ing-nets drooping  from  their  hands  like  dark  webs  woven  by 
giant  spiders. 

"  'Tis  the  first  time  we  have  seen  the  Arch  of  Death  this 
year,"  said  one  in  awed  accents. 

"Ay,  ay!"  returned  another,  with  a  sigh.  "And  some  one 
is  bound  to  cross  it,  whether  he  will  or  no.    'Tis  a  sure  sign!" 

"Sure!"  they  all  agreed,  in  hushed  voices  as  faint  and  far- 
off  as  the  breaking  of  the  tide  against  the  rocks  on  the  oppo- 
site coast. 


THELMA.  463 

As  they  spoke  the  fairy-like  bridge  in  the  sky  parted 
asunder  and  vanished!  The  brilHant  aurora  boreahs  faded 
by  swift  degrees — a  few  moments,  and  the  land  was  again  en- 
veloped in  gloom. 

It  might  have  been  midnight,  yet  by  the  clock  it  was  but 
four  in  the  afternoon.  Dreary  indeed  was  the  Alien  Fjord — 
yet  the  neighboring  village  of  Talvig  was  even  drearier. 
There,  desolation  reigned  supreme — it  was  a  frozen  region  of 
bitter,  shelterless  cold,  where  the  poverty-stricken  inhabi- 
tants, smitten  by  the  physical  torpor  and  mental  stupefaction 
engendered  by  the  long,  dark  season,  scarcely  stirred  out  of 
their  miserable  homes,  save  to  gather  extra  fuel.  This  is  the 
time  in  Norway  when,  beyond  the  Arctic  Circle,  the  old  gods 
3^et  have  sway — when,  in  spite  of  their  persistent,  sometimes 
fanatical,  adherence  to  the  strictest  forms  of  Christianity,  the 
people  almost  unconsciously  revert  to  the  superstitions  of 
their  ancestors.  Gathering  round  the  blazing  pine-logs,  they 
recount  to  one  another  in  low  voices  the  ancient  legends  of 
dead  and  gone  heroes — and  listening  to  the  yell  of  the  storm 
wind  round  their  huts,  they  still  fancy  they  hear  the  wild  war- 
cries  of  the  Valkyries  rushing  past  at  full  gallop  on  their 
coal-black  steeds,  with  their  long  hair  floating  behind  them. 

On  this  particular  afternoon  the  appearance  of  the  "Death- 
Arch,"  as  they  called  that  special  form  of  the  aurora,  had 
impressed  the  Talvig  folk  greatly.  Some  of  them  were  at 
their  doors,  and,  regardless  of  the  piercing  cold,  occupied 
themselves  in  staring  languidly  at  a  reindeer  sledge  which 
stood  outside  one  of  the  more  distant  huts,  evidently  waiting 
for  some  person  within.  The  hoofs  of  the  animals  made  no 
impression  on  the  hard  snow — now  and  again  they  gently 
shook  the  tinkling  bells  on  their  harness,  but  otherwise  were 
very  patient.  The  sledge  w-as  in  charge  of  a  youthful  Lap- 
lander— a  hideous,  stunted  specimen  of  humanity,  who  ap- 
peared to  be  literally  sewed  up  from  head  to  foot  in  skins. 

This  cortege  was  evidently  an  object  of  curiosity — the  on- 
lookers eyed  it  askance,  and  with  a  sort  of  fear.  For  did  it 
not  belong  to  the  terrible  bonde,  Olaf  Guldmar? — and  would 
not  the  Laplander — a  useful  boy,  w^ell  known  in  Talvig — come 
to  some  fatal  harm  by  watching,  even  for  a  few  minutes,  the 
property  of  an  acknowledged  pagan?  Who  could  tell?  The 
very  reindeer  might  be  possessed  by  evil  spirits — they  were 
certainly  much  sleeker  and  finer  than  the  ordinary  run  of 


464  THELMA. 

Buch  animals.  There  was  something  uncanny  in  the  very 
look  of  them!  Thus  the  stupefied,  unreasoning  Talvig  folk 
muttered,  one  to  another,  leaning  drowsily  out  of  their  half- 
open  doors. 

"  'Tis  a  strange  thing,"  said  one  man,  "that  a  woman  as 
strong  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord  as  Lovisa  Elsland  should  call 
for  one  of  the  wicked  to  visit  her  on  her  death-bed." 

"Strange  enough!"  answered  his  neighbor,  blinking  over 
his  pipe,  and  knocking  down  some  of  the  icicles  pendent  from 
his  roof.  "But  maybe  it  is  to  curse  him  with  the  undying 
curse  of  the  godly." 

"She's  done  that  all  her  life,"  said  the  first  speaker. 

"That's  true!  She's  been  a  faithful  servant  of  the  Gospel. 
All's  right  with  her  in  the  next  world — she'll  die  easily." 

"Was  it  for  her  the  Death- Arch  shone?"  asked  an  old 
woman,  suddenly  thusting  her  head,  wrapped  in  a  red  woolen 
hood,  out  of  a  low  doorway,  through  which  the  light  of  a  fire 
sparkled  from  the  background,  sending  vivid  flashes  across 
the  snow. 

The  man  who  had  spoken  last  shook  his  head  solemnly. 

"The  Death- Arch  never  shone  for  a  Christian  yet,"  he  said, 
gravely.  "No!  There's  something  else  in  the  wind.  We 
can't  see  it — but  it  will  come — it  must  come !  That  sign  never 
fails." 

And  presently,  tired  of  watching  the  waiting  sledge  and  the 
passive  liaplander,  he  retreated  within  his  house,  shutting  his 
door  against  the  darkness  and  the  bitter  wind.  His  neighbors 
followed  his  example,  and,  save  for  two  or  three  red  glimmers 
of  light  here  and  there,  the  little  village  looked  as  though  it 
had  been  deserted  long  ago — a  picture  of  frost-bound  silence 
and  solitude. 

Meanwhile,  in  Lovisa  Elsland's  close  and  comfortless  dwell- 
ing, stood  Olaf  Guldmar.  His  strong,  stately  figure,  wrapped 
in  furs,  seemed  almost  to  fill  the  little  place — he  had  thrown 
aside  the  thick  scarf  of  wadmel  in  which  he  had  been  wrapped 
to  the  eyes  while  driving  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind — and  he  now 
lifted  his  fur  cap,  thus  displaying  his  silvery  hair,  ruddy  fea- 
tures, and  open,  massive  brow.  At  that  moment  a  woman  who 
was  busying  herself  in  putting  fresh  pine-logs  on  the  smoul- 
dering fire,  turned  and  regarded  him  intently. 

"Lord,  Lord!"  she  muttered — "  'tis  a  man  of  men — he  re- 
joiceth  in  his  strength,  even  as  the  lion — and  of  what  avail 


THEMLA.  465 

shall  the  curse  of  the  wicked  avail  against  the  soul  that  is 
firmly  established!" 

Guldmar  heard  her  not — he  was  looking  toward  a  low  pallet 
bed,  on  which  lay  extended  at  full  length,  an  apparently  in- 
sensible form. 

''Has  she  been  long  thus?"  he  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Since  last  night,"  replied  the  woman — no  other  than  Mr. 
Dyceworthy's  former  servant,  Ulrika.  "She  wakened  sud- 
denly, and  bade  me  send  for  you.    To-day  she  has  not  spoken." 

The  bonde  sighed  somewhat  impatiently.  He  approached 
the  now  blazing  pine  logs,  and  as  he  drew  off  his  thick  fur 
driving-gloves  and  warmed  his  hands  at  the  cheerful  blaze, 
Ulrika  again  fixed  her  dull  eyes  upon  him  with  something  of 
wonder  and  reluctant  admiration.  Presently  she  trimmed  an 
oil-lamp,  and  set  it,  burning  dimly,  on  the  table.  Then  she 
went  to  the  bed  and  bent  over  it.  After  a  pause  of  several 
minutes  she  turned  and  made  a  beckoning  sign  with  her  fin- 
ger. Guldmar  advanced  a  little — when  a  sudden  eldritch 
shriek  startled  him  back,  almost  curdling  the  blood  in  his 
veins.  Out  of  the  deep  obscurity,  like  some  gaunt  specter 
rising  from  the  tomb,  started  a  face,  wrinkled,  cadaverous, 
and  distorted  by  suffering — a  face  in  which  the  fierce,  fevered 
eyes  glittered  with  a  strange  and  dreadful  brilliancy — the  face 
of  Lovisa  Elsland,  stern,  forbidding,  and  already  dark  with 
the  shadows  of  approaching  death.  She  stared  vacantly  at 
Guldmar,  whose  picturesque  head  was  illumined  by  the  ruddy 
glow  of  the  fire,  and  feebly  shaded  her  eyes  as  though  she 
saw  something  that  hurt  them.  Ulrika  raised  her  on  her 
tumbled  pillow,  and  saying,  in  cold,  unmoved  tones:  "Speak 
now,  for  the  time  is  short,"  she  once  more  beckoned  the  bonde 
imperatively. 

He  approached  slowly. 

"Lovisa  Elsland,"  he  began  in  distinct  tones,  addressing 
himself  to  that  ghastly  countenance  still  partly  shaded  by  one 
hand,  "I  am  here — Olaf  Guldmar.    Dost  thou  know  me?" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  a  strange  spasm  contorted  the 
withered  features  of  the  dying  woman.  She  bent  her  head  as 
though  to  listen  to  some  far-off  echo,  and  held  up  her  skinny 
finger  as  though  enjoining  silence. 

"Know  thee!"  she  babbled,  whisperingly.  "How  should  I 
not  know  the  brown-haired  Olaf?  Olaf  of  the  merry  eye — 
Olaf,  the  pride  of  the  Norse  maidens!"    She  lifted  herself  in 

30 


466  THBLMA. 

a  more  erect  attitude,  and  stretching  out  her  lean  arms,  went 
on  as  though  chanting  a  monotonous  recitative.  "Olaf,  tlie 
wanderer  over  wild  seas — he  comes  and  goes  in  his  ship  that 
sails  like  a  white  bird  on  the  sparkling  waters — long  and  silent 
are  the  days  of  his  absence — mournful  are  the  fjelds  and 
fjords  without  the  smile  of  Olaf — Olaf  the  King!" 

She  paused,  and  Guldmar  regarded  her  in  pitying  wonder. 
Her  face  changed  to  a  new  expression — one  of  wrath  and 
fear. 

"Stay,  stay!"  she  cried  in  penetrating  accents.  "Who 
comes  from  the  South  with  Olaf?  The  clouds  drive  fast  be- 
fore the  wind — clouds  rest  on  the  edge  of  the  dark  fjord — sails 
red  as  blood  flash  against  the  sky — who  comes  with  Olaf? 
Fair  hair  ripples  against  his  breast  like  streaming  sunbeams; 
eyes  blue  as  the  glitter  of  the  northern  lights  are  looking 
upon  him — lips  crimson  and  heavy  with  kisses  for  Olaf — ah!" 
She  broke  off  with  a  cry,  and  beat  the  air  with  her  hands  as 
though  to  keep  some  threatening  thing  away  from  her. 
"Back,  back!  Dead  bride  of  Olaf,  torment  me  no  more — 
back,  I  say!  See" — and  she  pointed  into  the  darkness  before 
her — "the  pale,  pale  face — the  long  glittering  hair  twisted  like 
a  snake  of  gold — she  glides  along  the  path  across  the  moun- 
tains— the  child  follows! — the  child!  Why  not  kill  the  child 
as  well — M^hy  not?" 

She  stopped  suddenly  with  a  wild  laugh.  The  bonde  had 
listened  to  her  ravings  with  something  of  horror,  his  ruddy 
cheeks  growing  paler. 

"By  the  gods,  this  is  strange!"  he  muttered.  "She  seems 
to  speak  of  my  wife — yet  what  can  she  know  of  her?" 

For  some  moments  there  was  silence.  Lovisa  seemed  to 
have  exhausted  her  strength.  Presently,  however,  she  put 
aside  her  straggling  white  hairs  from  her  forehead,  and  de- 
manded, fiercely: 

"Where  is  my  grandchild?    Where  is  Britta?" 

Neither  Guldmar  nor  Ulrika  made  any  reply.  But  Britta's 
name  recalled  the  old  woman  to  herself,  and  when  she  spoke 
again  it  Avas  quite  collectedly,  and  in  her  usual  harsh  voice. 
She  seemed  to  forget  all  that  she  had  just  uttered,  for  she 
turned  her  eyes  upon  the  bonde,  as  though  she  had  but  then 
perceived  him. 

"So  you  are  come,  Olaf  Guldmar!"  she  said.  "It  is  well — 
for  the  hand  of  Death  is  upon  me." 


THELMA.  467 

"It  is  well,  indeed,  if  I  can  be  of  service,  Lovisa  Elsland/' 
responded  Guldmar,  "though  I  am  but  a  sorry  consoler,  hold- 
ing, as  I  do,  that  death  is  the  chief  blessing,  and  in  no  way  to 
be  regretted  at  any  time.  Moreover,  when  the  body  grows 
too  weak  to  support  the  soul,  'tis  as  well  to  escape  from  it 
with  what  speed  we  may." 

"Escape — escape?  Where?"  asked  Lovisa.  "From  the 
worm  that  dieth  not?  From  the  devouring  flame  that  is  never 
quenched?  From  the  torturing  thirst  and  heat  and  darkness 
of  hell,  who  shall  escape?" 

"Nay,  if  that  is  all  the  comfort  thy  creed  can  give  thee," 
said  the  bonde,  with  a  half  smile,  "  'tis  but  a  poor  statf  to  lean 
on!" 

Lovisa  looked  at  him  mockingly.  "And  is  thine  so  strong 
a  prop  to  thy  pride?"  she  asked  disdainfully.  "Has  Odin  so 
endowed  thee  that  thou  shouldst  boast  of  him  ?  Listen  to  me, 
Olaf  Guldmar — I  have  but  little  strength  remaining,  and  I 
must  speak  briefly.    Thy  wife — " 

"What  of  her?"  said  the  bonde,  hastily.  "Thou  knewest 
her  not." 

"I  knew  her,"  said  Lovisa,  steadily,  "as  the  lightning  knows 
the  tree  it  withers — as  the  sea  knows  the  frail  boat  it  wrecks 
for  sport  on  a  windy  day.  Thou  haughty  Olaf!  I  knew  her 
well — even  as  the  broken  heart  knows  its  destroyer!" 

Guldmar  looked  perplexedly  at  Ulrika.  "Surely  she  raves 
again  ?"  he  said.    Ulrika  was  silent. 

"Eave?  Tell  him  I  do  not  rave!"  cried  Lovisa,  rising  in 
her  bed  to  utter  her  words  with  more  strength  and  emphasis. 
"May  be  I  had  raved,  but  that  is  past!  The  Lord,  who  will 
judge  and  condemn  my  soul,  bear  witness  that  I  speak  the 
truth!  Olaf  Guldmar,  rememberest  thou  the  days  when  we 
were  young?" 

"  'Tis  long  ago,  Lovisa,"  replied  the  bonde,  with  brief  gen- 
tleness. 

"Long  ago?  It  seems  but  yesterday!  But  yesterday  I  saw 
the  world  all  radiant  with  hope  and  joy  and  love — love  that  to 
you  was  a  mere  pastime — but  with  me — "  She  shuddered 
and  seemed  to  lose  herself  in  a  maze  of  dreary  recollection. 
"Love!"  she  presently  muttered — "love  is  strong  as  death — 
jealousy  is  cruel  as  the  grave — the  coals  thereof  are  coals  of 
fire  which  hath  a  most  vehement  flame!  Even  so!  You, 
Olaf  Guldmar,  have  forgotten  what  I  remember,  that  once,  in 


468  THELMA. 

that  yesterday  of  youth,  you  called  me  fair — once  your  lips 
branded  mine!  Could  I  forget  that  kiss?  Think  you  a  Norse 
woman,  bred  in  the  shadow  of  the  constant  mountains,  for- 
gets the  first  thrill  of  passion  wakened  in  her  soul?  Light 
women  of  those  lands  where  the  sun  ever  shines  on  fresh  fol- 
lies may  count  their  loves  by  the  score — but  with  us  of  the 
North,  one  love  suffices  to  fill  a  lifetime.  And  was  not  my 
life  filled?  Filled  to  overflowing  with  bitterness  and  misery! 
For  I  loved  you,  proud  Olaf! — I  loved  you — "  The  bonde 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  incredulous  astonishment.  Lovisa 
fixed  her  eyes  on  him  with  a  dark  scorn.  "Yes,  I  loved  you — 
scoffer  and  unbeliever  as  you  were  and  are! — accursed  of  Grod 
and  man!  I  loved  you  in  spite  of  all  that  was  said  against 
you — nay,  I  would  have  forsaken  my  creed  for  yours,  and 
condemned  my  soul  to  the  everlasting  burning  for  your  sake! 
I  loved  you  as  she — that  pale,  fair,  witch-like  thing  you 
wedded — could  never  love — "  Her  voice  died  away  in  a  sort 
of  despairing  M^ail,  and  she  paused. 

"By  my  soul!"  said  the  bonde,  astounded,  and  stroking  his 
white  beard  in  some  embarrassment,  "I  never  knew  of  this! 
It  is  true  that  in  the  hot  days  of  youth,  mischief  is  often  done 
unwittingly.  But  why  trouble  yourself  with  these  memories, 
Lovisa?  If  it  be  any  comfort — believe  me,  I  am  sorry  harm 
ever  came  to  you  through  my  thoughtless  jesting — " 

"It  matters  not!"  and  Lovisa  regarded  him  with  a  strange 
and  awful  smile.  "I  have  had  my  revenge!"  She  stopped 
abruptly — then  went  on — "  'twas  a  fair  bride  you  chose,  Olaf 
Guldmar — child  of  an  alien  from  these  shores — Thelma,  with 
the  treacherous  laughter  and  light  of  the  South  in  her  eyes 
and  smile!  And  I,  who  had  known  love,  made  friends  with 
hate — "  She  checked  herself,  and  looked  full  at  the  bonde 
with  a  fiendish  joy  sparkling  in  her  eyes.  "She  whom  you 
wedded — she  whom  you  loved  so  well — how  soon  she  died!" 

There  was  something  so  suggestive  and  dreadful  in  the  ex- 
pression of  her  face  as  she  said  this  that  the  stout  heart  of 
the  old  bonde  pulsated  more  quickly  with  a  sudden  vague  dis- 
trust and  dread.  She  gave  him  no  time  to  speak,  but  la3dng 
one  yellow,  claw-like  hand  on  his  arm,  and  raising  her  voice 
to  a  sort  of  yell,  exclaimed,  triumphantly: 

"Yes,  yes!  how  soon  she  died!  Bravely,  bravely  done! 
And  no  one  ever  guessed  the  truth — no  one  ever  knew  I  killed 
her!" 


THELMA,  469 

Guldmar  uttered  a  sharp  cry,  and  shook  himself  free  from 
her  touch.  In  the  same  instant  his  hand  flew  to  the  hilt  of  the 
hunting-knife  in  his  girdle. 

"Killed  her!    By  the  gods " 

Ulrika  sprung  before  him.  "Shame!"  she  cried,  sternly. 
"She  is  dying!" 

"Too  slowly  for  me!"  exclaimed  the  bonde,  furiously. 

"Peace — peace!"  implored  Ulrika.    "Let  her  speak!" 

"Strike,  Olaf  Guldmar!"  said  Lovisa,  in  a  deep  voice, 
harsh,  but  all  untremulous — "Strike,  pagan,  with  whom  the 
law  of  blood  is  supreme — strike  to  the  very  center  of  my 
heart — I  do  not  fear  you!  I  killed  her,  I  say — and  therein  I, 
the  servant  of  tlie  Lord,  was  justified!  Think  you  that  the 
Most  High  hath  not  commanded  His  elect  to  utterly  destroy 
and  trample  underfoot  their  enemies? — and  is  not  vengeance 
mine  as  well  as  thine,  accursed  slave  of  Odin?" 

A  spasm  of  pain  here  interrupted  her — she  struggled  vio- 
lently for  breath — and  Ulrika  supported  her.  Guldmar  stood 
motionless,  white  with  restrained  fury,  his  eyes  blazing.  Ke- 
covering  by  slow  degrees,  Lovisa  once  more  spoke — her  voice 
was  weaker,  and  sounded  a  long  way  off. 

"Yea,  the  Lord  hath  been  on  my  side!"  she  said,  and  the 
hideous  blasphemy  rattled  in  her  throat  as  it  was  uttered. 
"Listen — and  hear  how  He  delivered  mine  enemy  into  my 
hands.  I  watched  her  always — I  followed  her  many  and  many 
a  time,  though  she  never  saw  me.  I  knew  her  favorite  path 
across  the  mountains — it  led  past  a  rocky  chasm.  On  the  edge 
of  that  chasm  there  was  a  broad,  flat  stone,  and  there  she 
would  sit  often,  reading,  or  watching  the  fishing-boats  on  the 
fjord,  and  listening  to  the  prattle  of  her  child.  I  used  to 
dream  of  that  stone,  and  wonder  if  I  could  loosen  it!  It  was 
strongly  embedded  in  the  earth — but  each  day  I  went  to  it — 
each  day  I  moved  it!  Little  by  little  I  worked — till  a  mere 
touch  would  have  sent  it  hurling  downward — yet  it  looked  as 
firm  as  ever." 

Guldmar  uttered  a  fierce  ejaculation  of  anguish — he  put  one 
hand  to  his  throat  as  though  he  were  stifling.  Lovisa,  watch- 
ing him,  smiled  vindictively,  and  continued: 

"When  I  had  done  all  I  could  do,  I  lay  in  wait  for  her,  hop- 
ing and  praying.  My  hour  came  at  last!  It  was  a  bright 
sunny  morning — a  little  bird  had  been  twittering  above  the 
very  place — as  it  flew  away,  she  approached — a  book  was  in 


470  THELMA. 

her  hand — her  child  followed  her  at  some  little  distance  off. 
Fortune  favored  me — a  cluster  of  pansies  had  opened  their 
blossoms  a  few  inches  below  the  stone — she  saw  them — and, 
light  as  a  bird,  sprung  on  it  and  reached  forward  to  gather 
them —  Ah!" — and  the  wretched  woman  clapped  her  hands 
and  broke  into  malignant  laughter — "1  can  hear  her  quick 
shriek  now — the  crash  of  stones  and  the  crackle  of  branches  as 
she  fell  down — down  to  her  death!  Presently  the  child  came 
running — it  was  too  young  to  understand — it  sat  down  pa- 
tiently waiting  for  its  mother.  How  I  longed  to  kill  it!  but 
it  sung  to  itself  like  the  bird  that  had  flown  away,  and  I  could 
not.  But  she  was  gone — she  was  silent  forever — the  Lord  be 
praised  for  all  His  mercies!  Was  she  smiling,  Olaf  Guldmar, 
when  you  found  her — dead?" 

A  strange  solemnity  shadowed  the  bonde's  features.  He 
turned  his  eyes  upon  her  steadily. 

"Blessing  and  honor  be  to  the  gods  of  my  fathers!"  he  said. 
"I  found  her — living!" 

The  change  that  came  over  Lovisa's  face  at  these  words  was 
inexpressibly  awful — she  grew  livid,  and  her  lips  twitched 
convulsively. 

"Living — living!"  she  gasped. 

"Living!"  repeated  Guldmar,  sternly.  "Vile  hag!  Your 
purpose  was  frustrated!  Your  crime  destroyed  her  beauty 
and  shortened  her  days — but  she  lived — lived  for  ten  sweet, 
bitter  years,  hidden  away  from  all  eyes  save  mine — mine  that 
never  grew  tired  of  looking  in  her  patient,  heavenly  face! 
Ten  years  I  held  her  as  one  holds  a  jewel — and,  when  she  died, 
her  death  was  but  a  falling  asleep  in  these  fond  arms — " 

Lovisa  raised  herself  with  a  sharp  cry,  and  wrung  her  hands 
together. 

"Ten  years — ten  years!"  she  moaned.  "I  thought  her  dead 
— and  she  lived  on — beloved  and  loving  all  the  while.  0 
God,  God!  why  hast  Thou  made  a  mockery  of  Thy  servant!" 
She  rocked  herself  to  and  fro — then  looked  up  with  an  evil 
smile.  "Nay,  but  she  suffered!  That  was  best.  It  is  worse 
to  suffer  than  to  die.    Thank  God,  she  suffered!" 

"Ay,  she  suffered!"  said  Guldmar,  fiercely,  scarce  able  to 
restrain  himself  from  seizing  upon  the  miserable  old  woman 
and  shaking  the  sinking  life  out  of  her — "and  had  I  but 
guessed  who  caused  her  sufferings,  by  the  sword  of  Odin,  I 
would  have — " 


THELMA.  471 

Ulrika  laid  her  hand  on  his  suddenly  upraised  arm. 

"Listen!"  she  whispered.  A  low  wailing,  like  the  cry  of  a 
distressed  child,  swept  round  and  round  the  house,  followed 
by  a  gust  of  wind  and  a  clattering  shower  of  hail-stones.  A 
strange  blue  light  leaped  up  from  the  sparkling  log  fire,  and 
cast  an  unearthly  glow  through  the  room.  A  deep  stillness 
ensued. 

Then — steady  and  clear  and  resonant — a  single  sound 
echoed  through  the  air,  like  a  long  note  played  on  an  exceed- 
ingly sweet  silver  trumpet.  It  began  softly — swelled  to  a 
crescendo — then  died  delicately  away.  Guldmar  raised  his 
head — his  face  was  full  of  rapt  and  expectant  gravity — his 
action,  too,  was  somewhat  singular,  for  he  drew  the  knife  from 
his  girdle  and  kissed  the  hilt  solemnly,  returning  it  immedi- 
ately to  his  sheath.  At  the  same  moment  Lovisa  uttered  a 
loud  cry,  and,  flinging  the  coverings  from  her,  strove  to  rise 
from  her  bed.  Ulrika  held  her  firmly — she  struggled  feebly 
yet  determinedly,  gazing  the  while  with  straining,  eager  glassy 
eyes  into  the  gloom  of  the  opposite  corner. 

"Darkness — darkness!"  she  muttered,  hoarsely — "and  the 
white,  white  faces  of  dead  things!  There — there  they  lie! — 
all  still,  at  the  foot  of  the  black  chasm — their  mouths  move 
without  sound — what — what  are  they  saying?  I  can  not  hear 
— ask  them  to  speak  louder — louder!  Ah!"  and  she  uttered 
a  terrified  scream  that  made  the  rafters  ring.  "They  move! — 
they  stretch  out  their  hands — cold,  cold  hands! — they  are 
drawing  me  down  to  them — down — down — to  that  darkness! 
Hold  me — hold  me!  don't  let  me  go  to  them — Lord,  Lord  be 
merciful  to  me — let  me  live — live — "  Suddenly  she  drew 
back  in  deadly  horror,  gesticulating  with  her  tremulous  lean 
hands  as  though  to  shut  away  the  sight  of  some  loathsome 
thing  unveiled  to  her  view.  "Who  is  it" — she  asked  in  an 
awful  shuddering  whisper — "who  is  it  that  says  there  is  no  hell? 
I  see  it!"  Still  retreating  backward,  backward — the  clammy 
dews  of  death  darkening  her  affrightened  countenance — she 
turned  her  glazing  eyes  for  the  last  time  on  Guldmar.  Her 
lips  twitched  into  a  smile  of  dreadful  mockery.  "May — thy 
gods — reward  thee — Olaf  Guldmar — even — as  mine — are — re- 
warding— me!" 

And  with  these  words,  her  head  dropped  hea\dly  on  her 
breast.  Ulrika  laid  her  back  on  her  pillow,  a  corpse.  The 
stern,  cruel  smile  froze  slowly  on  her  dead  features — gradu- 


472  THELMA. 

ally  she  became,  as  it  were,  a  sort  of  ancient  cenotaph,  carved 
to  resemble  old  age  combined  with  unrepenting  evil — the 
straggling  white  hair  that  rested  on  her  wrinkled  forehead 
looking  merely  like  snow  fallen  on  sculptured  stone. 

"Good  Lord,  have  mercy  on  her  soul!"  murmured  Ulrika, 
piously,  as  she  closed  the  upward  staring  eyes  and  crossed  the 
withered  hands. 

"Good  Devil,  claim  thine  own!"  said  Guldmar,  with  proudly 
lifted  arm  and  quivering,  disdainful  lips.  "Thou  foolish 
woman!  Thinkest  thou  thy  Lord  makes  place  for  murderers 
in  His  heaven?  If  so,  'tis  well  I  am  not  bound  there!  Only 
the  just  can  tread  the  pathway  to  Valhalla — 'tis  a  better 
creed!" 

Ulrika  looked  at  his  superb,  erect  figure  and  lofty  head,  and 
a  strange,  anxious  expression  flitted  across  her  dull  counte- 
nance. 

"Nay,  bonde,  we  do  not  believe  that  the  Lord  accepteth 
murderers,  without  they  repent  themselves  of  their  backslid- 
ings — but  if  with  penitence  they  turn  to  Him,  even  at  the 
eleventh  hour,  happily  they  may  be  numbered  among  the 
elect." 

Guldmar's  eyes  flashed.  "I  know  not  thy  creed,  woman, 
nor  care  to  learn  it!  But,  all  the  same,  thou  art  deceived  in 
thy  vain  imaginings.  The  Eternal  Justice  can  not  err — call 
that  justice  Christ  or  Odin  as  thou  wilt.  I  tell  you,  the  soul 
of  the  innocent  bird  that  perishes  in  the  drifting  snow  is  near 
and  dear  to  its  Creator — but  the  tainted  soul  that  had  yonder 
vile  body  for  its  tenement  was  but  a  flame  of  the  Evil  One, 
and  accursed  from  the  beginning,  it  must  return  to  him  from 
whom  it  came.  A  heaven  for  such  as  she?  Nay — rather  the 
lowest  circle  of  the  furthest  and  fiercest  everlasting  fires — and 
thither  do  I  commend  her!    Farewell!" 

Rapidly  muffling  himself  up  in  his  wraps  he  strode  out  of 
the  house.  He  sprung  into  his  sledge,  throwing  a  generous 
gratuity  to  the  small  Laplander  who  had  taken  charge  of  it, 
and  who  now  ventured  to  inquire: 

"Has  the  good  Lovisa  left  us?" 

Guldmar  burst  into  a  hard  laugh.  "Good!  By  my  soul! 
The  folks  of  Talvig  take  up  murderers  for  saints  and  criminals 
for  guides!  'Tis  a  wild  world!  Yes — she  has  gone — where 
all  such  blessed  ones  go — to — heaven!"    He  shook  his  clinched 


THELMA.  473 

fist  in  the  air — then  hastily  gathering  up  the  reins,  prepared 
to  start. 

The  Lapp,  after  the  manner  of  his  race,  was  easily  fright- 
ened, and  cowered  back,  terrified  at  the  bonde's  menacing 
gesture  and  fierce  tone — but  quickly  bethinking  himself  of 
the  liberal  fee  he  clutched  in  his  palm,  he  volunteered  a  warn- 
ing to  this  kingly  old  man  with  the  streaming  white  hair  and 
beard,  and  the  keen  eyes  that  were  already  fixed  on  the  dark 
sweep  of  the  rough,  uneven  road  winding  toward  the  Alten 
Fjord. 

"There  is  a  storm  coming,  Jarl  Guldmar!"  he  stam- 
mered. 

Guldmar  turned  his  head.  "Why  call  me  Jarl?"  he  de- 
manded, half  angrily.    "  'Tis  a  name   I  wear  not." 

He  touched  the  reindeer  lightly  with  his  long  whip — the 
sensitive  beasts  started  and  sprung  forward. 

Once  more  the  Lapp  exclaimed,  with  increased  excitement 
and  uncouth  gestures: 

"Storm  is  coming! — wide — dark — deep!  See  how  the  sky 
stoops  with  the  hidden  snow!" 

He  pointed  to  the  north,  and  there,  low  on  the  horizon,  was 
a  lurid  red  gleam  like  a  smoldering  fire,  while  just  above  it  a 
greenish  blackness  of  cloud  hung  heavy  and  motionless.  To- 
ward the  central  part  of  the  heavens  two  or  three  stars  shone 
with  frosty  brightness,  and  through  a  few  fleecy  ribbons  of 
grayish  mist  glimmered  the  uncertain  promise  of  a  faint 
moon. 

Guldmar  smiled  slightly.  "Storm  coming?"  he  answered, 
almost  gayly.  "That  is  well!  Storm  and  I  are  old  friends, 
my  lad!    Good-night!" 

Once  more  he  touched  his  horned  steeds,  and  with  a  jingle- 
jangle  of  musical  bells  and  a  scudding,  slippery  hissing  across 
the  hard  snow,  the  sledge  sped  off  with  fairy-like  rapidity,  and 
in  a  few  moments  its  one  little  guiding  lantern  disappeared  in 
the  darkness  like  a  suddenly  extinguished  candle. 

The  Lapp  stood  pondering  and  gazing  after  it,  with  the 
bonde's  money  in  his  palm,  till  the  cold  began  to  penetrate 
even  his  thick  skin-clothing  and  his  fat  little  body,  well 
anointed  with  whale-oil  though  it  was — and  becoming  speedily 
conscious  of  this,  he  scampered  with  extraordinary  agility, 
considering  the  dimensions  of  his  snow-shoes,  into  the  hut 
where  he  had  his  dwelling,  relating  to  all  who  chose  to  hear 


474  THELMA. 

the  news  of  old  Lovisa  Elsland's  death,  and  the  aceonnts  of 
his  brief  interview  with  the  dreaded  but  generous  pagan. 

TJlrika,  watching  by  the  corpse  of  her  aged  friend,  was  soon 
joined  by  others  bent  on  sharing  her  vigil,  and  the  house  was 
presently  filled  with  women's  religious  wailings  and  prayers 
for  the  departed.  To  all  the  curious  inquiries  that  were  made 
concerning  the  cause  of  Lovisa's  desire  to  see  the  bonde  before 
she  died,  Ulrika  vouchsafed  no  reply — and  the  villagers,  who 
stood  somewhat  in  awe  of  her  as  a  woman  of  singular  godli- 
ness and  discreet  reputation,  soon  refrained  from  asking  any 
more  questions.  An  ambitious  young  Lutheran  preacher 
came,  and,  addressing  himself  to  all  assembled,  loudly  extolled 
the  superhuman  virtues  of  the  dead  "mother  of  the  village," 
as  Lovisa  had  been  called.  Amid  the  hysterical  weeping  and 
moaning  of  the  mourners,  he  begged  them  to  look  upon  her 
"venerated  face,"  and  observe  "the  smile  of  God's  own  peace 
engraven  there" — and  amid  all  his  eloquence,  and  the  shriek- 
ing excitement  of  his  fanatical  hearers,  Ulrika  alone  was 
silent. 

She  sat  stern  and  absorbed,  with  set  lips  and  lowered  eye- 
lids, at  the  head  of  the  bed  whereon  the  corpse  was  now  laid 
out,  grimly  rigid — with  bound-up  jaws,  and  clasped  fingers 
like  stiff,  dried  bones.  Her  thoughts  dwelt  gloomily  and  in- 
tently on  Guldmar's  words:  "The  Eternal  Justice  can  not 
err."  Eternal  Justice!  What  sentence  would  Eternal  Justice 
pass  upon  the  crime  of  murder? — or  attempt  to  murder?  "I 
am  guilty,"  the  unhappy  woman  reflected,  with  a  strong  shud- 
der chilling  her  veins — "guilty  even  as  Lovisa!  I  tried  to 
kill  my  child — I  thought,  I  hoped  it  was  dead!  It  was  not  my 
meaning  that  it  should  live.  And  this  Eternal  Justice,  may 
be,  will  judge  the  intention  more  than  the  crime.  0  Lord, 
Lord!  save  my  soul!  Teach  me  how  to  escape  from  the  con- 
demning fires  of  Thine  anger!"  Thus  she  prayed  and  wrestled 
with  her  accusing  self  in  secret — despair  and  fear  raging 
in  her  heart,  though  not  a  flicker  of  her  inward  agitation 
betrayed  itself  outwardly  on  her  stolid,  expressionless  features. 

Meanwhile  the  wind  rose  to  a  tearing,  thunderous  gale,  and 
the  night,  already  so  dark,  darkened  yet  more  visibly.  Olaf 
Guldmar,  driving  swiftly  homeward,  caught  the  first  furious 
gust  of  the  storm  that  came  rushing  onward  from  the  North 
Cape,  and  as  it  swooped  sideways  against  his  light  sledge,  he 
was  nearly  hurled  from  his  seat  by  the  sudden  violence  of  the 


THEIJiIA.  475 

shock.  He  settled  himself  more  firmly,  encouraging  with  a 
cheery  word  the  startled  reindeer,  who  stopped  short,  stretch- 
ing out  their  necks  and  sniffing  the  air,  their  haiiy  sides  heav- 
ing with  the  strain  of  trotting  against  the  blast,  and  the  smoke 
of  their  breath  steaming  upward  in  the  frosty  air  like  white 
vapor.  The  way  lay  now  through  a  narrow  defile  bordered 
with  tall  pines — and  as  the  terrified  animals,  recovering, 
shook  the  tinkling  bells  on  their  harness,  and  once  more  re- 
sumed their  journey,  the  road  was  comparatively  sheltered, 
and  the  wind  seemed  to  sink  as  suddenly  as  it  rose.  There 
was  a  hush — an  almost  ominous  silence. 

The  sledge  glided  more  slowly  between  the  even  lines  of 
upright  giant  trees,  crowned  with  icicles  and  draped  in  snow. 
The  bonde  involuntarily  loosened  the  reins  of  his  elfin  steeds, 
and  again  returned  to  those  painful  and  solemn  musings  from 
which  the  stinging  blow  of  the  tempest  had  for  a  moment 
roused  him.  The  proud  heart  of  the  old  man  ached  bitterly. 
What!  All  these  years  had  passed,  and  he,  the  descendant  of 
a  hundred  Vikings,  had  been  cheated  of  justice!  He  had  seen 
his  wife — the  treasured  darling  of  his  days,  suffering — dying, 
inch  by  inch,  year  by  year,  with  all  her  radiant  beauty  with- 
ered— and  he  had  never  known  her  destroyer!  Her  fall  from 
the  edge  of  the  chasm  had  been  deemed  by  them  both  an  acci- 
dent, and  yet — this  wretched  Lovisa  Elsland — mad  with  mis- 
placed, disappointed  passion,  jealousy,  and  revenge — had  lived 
on  to  the  extreme  of  life,  triumphant  and  unsuspected. 

'"I  swear  the  gods  have  played  me  false  in  this!"  he  mut- 
tered, lifting  his  eyes  in  a  sort  of  fierce  appeal  to  the  motion- 
less pine-tops  stiff  with  frost.  The  mystery  of  the  old  hag's 
hatred  of  his  daughter  was  now  made  clear — she  resembled 
her  mother  too  closely  to  escape  Lovisa's  malice.  He  remem- 
bered the  curse  she  had  called  down  upon  the  innocent  girl — 
how  it  was  she  who  had  untiringly  spread  abroad  the  report 
among  the  superstitious  people  of  the  place  that  Thelma  was 
a  witch  whose  presence  was  a  blight  upon  the  land — how  she 
had  decoyed  her  into  the  power  of  Mr.  Dyceworthy — all  was 
plain — and,  notwithstanding  her  deliberate  wickedness,  she 
had  lived  her  life  without  punishment!  This  was  what  made 
Guldmar's  blood  burn  and  pulses  thrill.  He  could  not  under- 
stand why  the  Higher  Powers  had  permitted  this  error  of  jus- 
tice, and,  like  many  of  his  daring  ancestors,  he  was  ready  to 
fling  defiance  in  the  very  face  of    Odin,  and  demand:   "Why 


476  THELMA. 

• — 0  thou  drowsy  god,  nodding  over  thy  wine-cups — why 
didst  thou  do  this  thing?" 

Utter  fearlessness — hodily  and  spiritual — fearlessness  of 
past,  present,  or  future,  life  or  death — was  Gruldmar's  creed. 
The  true  Norse  warrior  spirit  was  in  him — had  he  been  told, 
on  heavenly  authority,  that  the  lowest  range  of  the  "Nastrond" 
or  Scandinavian  hell  awaited  him,  he  would  have  accepted 
his  fate  with  unflinching  firmness.  The  indestructibility  of 
the  soul,  and  the  certainty  that  it  must  outlive  even  centuries 
of  torture,  and  triumph  gloriously  in  the  end,  was  the  core  of 
the  faith  he  professed.  As  he  glanced  upward,  the  frozen 
tree-tops,  till  then  rigidly  erect,  swayed  lightly  from  side  to 
side  with  a  crackling  sound — but  he  paid  no  heed  to  this  slight 
warning  of  a  fresh  attack  from  the  combative  storm  that  was 
gathering  together  and  renewing  its  scattered  forces.  He 
began  to  think  of  his  daughter,  and  the  grave  lines  on  his  face 
relaxed  and  softened. 

"  'Tis  all  fair  sailing  for  the  child,"  he  mused.  "For  that  I 
should  be  grateful!  The  world  has  been  made  a  soft  nest  for 
my  bird.  I  should  not  complain — my  own  time  is  short." 
His  former  anger  calmed  a  little — the  brooding  irritation  of 
his  mind  became  gradually  soothed. 

"Eose  of  my  heart!"  he  whispered,  tenderly  apostrophizing 
the  memory  of  his  wife — that  lost  jewel  of  love  whose  fair 
body  lay  enshrined  in  the  king's  tomb  by  the  fjord,  "wrong- 
fully done  to  death  as  thou  wert,  and  brief  time  as  we  had  for 
loving;  in  spite  of  thy  differing  creed,  I  feel  that  I  shall  meet 
thee  soon!  Yes — in  the  world  beyond  the  stars,  they  will 
bring  thee  to  me  in  Valhalla;  wheresoever  thou  art,  thou  wilt 
not  refuse  to  come!  The  gods  themselves  can  not  unfasten 
the  ties  of  love  between  us!" 

As  he  half  thought,  half  uttered  these  words,  the  reindeer 
again  stopped  abruptly,  rearing  their  antlered  heads  and  pant- 
ing heavily.  Hark!  what  was  that?  A  clear,  far-reaching 
note  of  music  seemingly  wakened  from  the  waters  of  the  fjord 
and  rising  upward,  upward,  with  bell-like  distinctness!  Guld- 
mar  leaned  from  his  motionless  sledge  and  listened  in  awe — it 
was  the  same  soimd  he  had  before  heard  as  he  stood  by  Lovisa 
Elsland's  death-bed — and  was  in  truth  nothing  but  a  strong 
current  of  wind  blowing  through  the  arched  and  honeycombed 
rocks  by  the  sea  toward  the  higher  land — creating  the  same 
effect  as  though  one  should  breathe  forcibly  through  a  pipe- 


THELMA.  477 

like  instrument  of  dried  and  hollow  reeds — and  being  rendered 
more  resonant  by  the  intense  cold,  it  bore  a  striking  similarity 
to  the  full  blast  of  a  war-trumpet.  For  the  worshiper  of  Odin 
it  had  a  significant  and  supernatural  meaning — and  he  re- 
peated his  former  action — that  of  drawing  the  knife  from  his 
girdle  and  kissing  the  hilt.  "If  Death  is  near  me/'  he  said,  in 
a  loud  voice,  "I  bid  it  welcome!  The  gods  know  that  I  am 
ready!" 

He  waited  as  though  expecting  some  answer,  but  there  was 
a  brief,  absolute  silence.  Then,  with  a  wild  shriek  and  riotous 
uproar,  the  circling  tempest — before  uncertain  and  vacillating 
in  its  wrath — pounced,  eagle-like,  downward  and  grasped  the 
mountains  in  its  talons — the  strong  pines  rocked  backward 
and  forward  as  though  bent  by  herculean  hands,  crashing 
their  frosted  branches  madly  together;  the  massive  clouds  in 
the  slcy  opened  and  let  fall  their  burden  of  snow.  Down  came 
the  large  fleecy  flakes,  twisting  dizzily  round  and  round  in  a 
white  waltz  to  the  whirl  of  the  wind — faster — faster — heavier 
and  thicker,  till  there  seemed  no  clear  space  in  the  air.  Guld- 
mar  urged  on  the  reindeer,  more  anxious  for  their  safety  than 
his  own.  The  poor  beasts  were  fatigued,  and  the  blinding 
snow  confused  them,  but  thej'-  struggled  on  patiently,  encour- 
aged by  their  master's  voice  and  the  consciousness  that  they 
were  nearing  home.  The  storm  increased  in  fury,  and  a  fierce 
gust  of  frozen  sleet  struck  the  sledge  like  a  strong  hammer- 
stroke,  as  it  advanced  through  the  rapidly  deepening  snow- 
drifts— its  guiding  lantern  was  extinguished.  Guldmar  did 
not  stop  to  relight  it — he  knew  he  was  approaching  his  farm, 
and  he  trusted  to  the  instinct  and  sagacity  of  his  steeds. 

There  was  indeed  but  a  short  distance  to  go — the  narrow 
wooden  defile  opened  out  on  two  roads,  one  leading  direct  to 
Bosekop — the  other,  steep  and  tortuous,  winding  down  to  the 
shore  of  the  fjord — this  latter  passed  the  bonde's  gate.  Once 
out  of  the  shadow  of  the  pines,  the  way  would  be  more  dis- 
tinctly seen — the  very  reindeer  seemed  to  be  conscious  of  this, 
for  they  trotted  more  steadily,  shaking  their  bells  in  even  and 
rhythmical  measure.  As  they  neared  the  end  of  the  long 
dark  vista,  a  sudden  bright-blue  glare  quivered  and  sprung 
wave-like  across  the  snow — a.  fantastic  storm-aurora  that 
flashed  and  played  among  the  feathery  falling  flakes  of  white 
till  they  looked  like  knots  and  clusters  of  sparkling  jewels. 
The  extreme  point  of  the  close  defile  was  reached  at  last,  and 


478  THELMA. 

here  the  landscape  opened  up  wide,  rocky  and  desolate — a 
weird  picture — with  the  heavy  clouds  above  repeatedly 
stabbed  through  and  through  by  the  needle-pointed  beams  of 
the  aurora  borealis  and  the  blank  whiteness  of  the  ground  be- 
low. Just  as  the  heads  of  the  reindeer  were  turned  into  the 
homeward  road,  half  of  the  aurora  suddenly  faded,  leaving 
the  other  half  still  beating  out  its  azure  brilliance  against  the 
horizon.  At  the  same  instant,  with  abrupt  swiftness,  a  dark 
shadow — so  dark  as  to  seem  almost  palpable — descended  and 
fell  directly  in  front  of  the  advancing  sledge — a  sort  of  mist 
that  appeared  to  block  the  way. 

Guldmar  leaned  forward  and  gazed  with  eager,  straining 
eyes  into  that  drooping  gloom — a  shadow? — a  mere  vapor, 
with  the  Northern  Lights  glimmering  through  its  murky 
folds?  Ah,  no — no!  For  him  it  was  something  very  different 
— a  heavenly  phantasm,  beautiful  and  grand,  with  solemn 
meaning!  He  saw  a  maiden,  majestically  tall,  of  earnest 
visage  and  imperial  mien — her  long,  black  hair  streamed  loose 
upon  the  wind — in  one  hand  she  held  a  shining  shield,  in  the 
other  a  lifted  spear!  On  her  white  brow  rested  a  glittering 
helmet — her  bosom  heaved  beneath  a  corslet  of  pale  gold — she 
fixed  her  divine,  dark  eyes  full  upon  his  face  and  smiled!  With 
a  cry  of  wonder  and  ecstasy  the  old  man  fell  back  in  his 
sledge — the  reins  dropped  from  his  hands — "The  Valkyrie! 
the  Valkyrie!"  he  exclaimed. 

A  mere  breathing  space,  and  the  shadow  vanished — the 
aurora  came  out  again  in  unbroken  splendor,  and  the  rein- 
deer, feeling  no  restraint  upon  them,  and  terrified  by  some- 
thing in  the  air,  or  the  ceaseless  glitter  of  the  lights  in  the 
sky,  started  off  precipitately  at  full  gallop.  The  long  reins 
trailed  loosely  over  their  backs,  lashing  their  sides  as  they  ran. 
Guldmar,  recovering  from  his  momentary  awe  and  bewilder- 
ment, strove  to  seize  them,  but  in  vain.  He  called,  he  shouted 
— the  frightened  animals  were  utterly  beyond  control,  and 
dashed  madly  down  the  steep  road,  swinging  the  sledge  from 
side  to  side,  and  entangling  themselves  more  and  more  with 
the  loose  reins,  till,  irritated  beyond  endurance,  confused  and 
blinded  by  the  flash  of  the  aurora  and  the  dizzy  whirl  of  the 
swiftly  falling  snow,  they  made  straight  for  a  steep  bank — and 
before  the  bonde  had  time  to  realize  the  situation  and  jump 
from  the  sledge — crash!  down  they  went  with  a  discordant 
jangle  of  bells,  their  hoofs  splitting  a  thin,  sharp  shelf  of  ice 


THELMA.  479 

as  they  leaped  forward — dragging  the  light  vehicle  after  them, 
and  twisting  it  over  and  over  till  it  was  a  mere  wreck — and 
throwing  out  its  occupant  head  foremost  against  a  jagged 
stone. 

Then,  more  scared  than  ever,  they  strove  to  clamber  out 
of  the  gully  into  which  they  had  recklessly  sprung,  but,  foiled 
in  these  attempts,  they  kicked,  plunged,  and  reared,  trampling 
heedlessly  over  the  human  form  lying  helpless  among  the 
shattered  fragments  of  the  sledge — till  tired  out  at  last,  they 
stood  motionless,  panting  with  terror.  Their  antlered  heads 
cast  fantastic  patterns  on  the  snow  in  the  varying  rose  and 
azure  radiance  that  rippled  from  the  waving  ribbons  of  the 
aurora — and  close  to  them,  his  slowly  trickling  life-blood 
staining  the  white  ground — his  hair  and  beard  glittering  in 
the  light  like  frosted  silver — his  eyes  fast  closed  as  though  he 
slept — lay  Olaf  Guldmar  unconscious — dying.  The  spear  of 
the  Valkyrie  had  fallen! 


CHAPTER    II. 


Bury  me  not  when  I  am  dead — 

Lay  me  not  down  in  a  dusty  bed; 

I  could  not  bear  the  life  down  there. 

With  the  wet  worms  crawling  about  my  hair! 

Ekic  Mackey, 

Long  hours  passed,  and  the  next  day  dawned,  if  the  dim 
twilight  that  glimmered  faintly  across  the  Alten  Fjord  could 
be  called  a  dawn.  The  snow-fall  had  ceased — the  wind  had 
sunk — there  was  a  frost-bound,  monotonous  calm.  The  pic- 
turesque dwelling  of  the  bonde  was  white  in  every  part,  and 
fringed  with  long  icicles — icicles  drooped  from  its  sheltering 
porch  and  gabled  windows — the  deserted  dove-cote  on  the  roof 
was  a  miniature  ice-palace,  curiously  festooned  with  thin 
threads  and  crested  pinnacles  of  frozen  snow.  Within  the 
house  there  was  silence — the  silence  of  approaching  desola- 
tion. In  the  room  where  Thelma  used  to  sit  and  spin,  a  blaz- 
ing fire  of  pine  sparkled  on  the  walls,  casting  ruddy  outward 
flashes  through  the  frost-covered  lattice-windows — and  here, 
toward  the  obscure  noon,  Olaf  Guldmar  awoke  from  his  long 


480  THELMA. 

trance  of  insensibility.  He  found  himself  at  home,  stretched 
on  his  own  bed,  and  looked  about  him  vacantly.  In  the 
earnest  and  watchful  countenance  that  bent  above  his  pillow, 
he  slowly  recognized  his  friend,  companion  and  servant, 
Valdemar  Svensen,  and  though  returning  consciousness 
brought  with  it  throbs  of  agonizing  pain,  he  strove  to  smile, 
and  feebly  stretched  out  his  hand.  Valdemar  grasped  it — 
kissed  it — and  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  restrain  his  emotion,  a 
sigh,  that  was  almost  a  groan,  escaped  him.  The  bonde  smiled 
again — then  lay  quiet  for  a  few  moments  as  though  endeavor- 
ing to  collect  his  thoughts.  Presently  he  spoke — his  voice 
was  faint  yet  distinct. 

"What  has  happened,  Valdemar?"  he  asked.  "How  is  it 
that  strength  has  departed  from  me?" 

Svensen  dropped  on  his  knees  by  the  bedside.  "An  acci- 
dent, my  Lord  Olaf,"  he  began,  falteringly. 

Guldmar's  eyes  suddenly  lightened.  "Ah,  I  remember!"  he 
said.  "The  rush  down  the  valle}- — I  remember  all!"  He 
paused,  then  added,  gently:  "And  so  the  end  has  come, 
Valdemar?" 

Svensen  uttered  a  passionate  exclamation  of  distress. 
"Let  not  my  lord  say  so!"  he  murmured,  appeahngly,  with 
the  air  of  a  subject  entreating  favor  from  a  king.     "Or,  if  it 
must  be,  let  me  also  travel  with  thee  wherever  thou  goest!" 

Olaf  Guldmar's  gaze  rested  on  him  with  a  musing  tender- 
ness. 

"  'Tis  a  far  journey,"  he  said,  simply.  "And  thou  art  not 
summoned."  He  raised  his  arm  to  test  its  force — ^for  one  sec- 
ond it  was  uplifted — then  it  fell  powerless  at  his  side.  "I  am 
conquered!"  he  went  on  with  a  cheerful  air.  "The  fight  is 
over,  Valdemar!  Surely  I  have  had  a  long  battle,  and  the 
time  for  rest  and  reward  is  welcome."  He  was  silent  for  a 
little,  then  continued:  "Tell  me — how — where  didst  thou 
find  me?  It  seems  I  had  a  dream,  strange  and  glorious — ^then 
came  a  rushing  sound  of  wheels  and  clanging  bells — and  after 
that,  a  long,  deep  silence." 

Speaking  in  low  tones,  Valdemar  briefly  related  the  events 
of  the  past  night.  How  he  had  heard  the  reindeer's  gallop 
down  the  road,  and  the  quick  jangling  of  the  bells  on  their 
harness,  and  had  concluded  that  the  bonde  was  returning  home 
at  extraordinary  speed — how  these  sounds  had  suddenly  and 
unaccountably  ceased — how,  after  waiting  for  some  time  and 


THELMA.  481 

hearing  nothing  more,  he  had  become  gi-eatly  alarmed,  and, 
taking  a  pine-torcli,  had  gone  out  to  see  what  had  occurred — 
how  he  liad  found  the  reindeer  standing  by  the  broken  sledge 
in  the  gully,  and  how,  after  some  search,  he  had  finally  dis- 
covered his  master,  lying  half  covered  by  the  snow,  and 
grievously  injured.  How  he  had  lifted  him  and  carried  him 
into  the  house — 

"By  my  soul!"  interrupted  the  bonde,  cheerfully,  "thou  must 
have  found  me  no  light  weight,  Valdemar!  See  what  a  good 
thing  it  is  to  be  a  man — with  iron  muscles,  and  strong  limbs, 
and  hardy  nerve!  By  the  Hammer  of  Thor!  the  glorious  gift 
of  strong  manhood  is  never  half  appreciated!  As  for  me — I 
am  a  man  no  longer!" 

He  sighed  a  little,  and,  passing  his  sinewy  hand  across  his 
brow,  lay  back  exhausted.  He  was  racked  by  bodily  torture, 
but — unflinching  old  hero  as  he  was — gave  no  sign  of  the 
agonizing  pain  he  sufi'ered.  Valdemar  Svensen  had  risen 
from  his  knees,  and  now  stood  gazing  at  him  with  yearning, 
miserable  eyes,  his  brown,  weather-beaten  visage  heavily 
marked  with  lines  of  grief  and  despair.  He  knew  that  he  was 
utterly  powerless — that  nothing  could  save  the  noble  life  that 
was  eijbing  slowly  away  before  him.  His  long  and  varied  ex- 
perience as  a  sailor,  pilot,  and  traveler  in  many  countries  had 
given  him  some  useful  knowledge  of  medicine  and  surgery, 
and  if  anything  was  possible  to  be  done,  he  could  do  it.  But 
in  this  case  no  medical  skill  would  have  been  availing — the 
old  man's  ribs  were  crushed  in  and  his  spine  injured — his 
death  was  a  question  of  but  a  few  hours  at  the  utmost,  if  so 
long. 

"Olaf  the  King!"  muttered  the  bonde  presently.  "True! 
They  make  no  mistakes  yonder — they  know  each  warrior  by 
name  and  rank — 'tis  only  in  this  world  we  are  subject  to  error. 
This  world!  By  the  gods! — it's  but  a  puff  of  thistle-down,  or 
a  light  mist  floating  from  the  sunset  to  the  sea!" 

He  made  a  vigorous  attempt  to  raise  himself  from  his  pillow 
— though  the  excruciating  anguish  caused  by  his  movement 
made  him  wince  a  little  and  grow  paler. 

"Wine,  Valdemar!  Fill  the  horn  cup  to  the  brim  and  bring 
it  to  me — I  must  have  strength  to  speak — before  I  depart — on 
the  last  great  journey." 

Obediently  and  in  haste,  Svensen  filled  the  cup  he  asked  for 
with  old  Lacrima  Christi,  of  which  there  was  always  a  supply 

31 


482  THELMA. 

in  this  far  northern  abode,  and  gave  it  to  him,  watching  him 
with  a  sort  of  superstitions  reverence  as  he  drained  o£E  its 
contents  and  returned  it  empty. 

"Ah!  That  warms  this  freezing  blood  of  mine/'  he  said, 
the  luster  flashing  back  into  his  eyes.  "  'Twill  find  fresh  force 
to  flow  a  brief  while  longer.  Yaldemar — I  have  little  time  to 
spend  with  thee — I  feel  death  here" — and  he  slightly  touched 
his  chest — "cold — cold  and  heavy.  'Tis  nothing — a  passing, 
chilly  touch  that  sweeps  away  the  world!  But  the  warmth  ol 
a  new,  strong  life  awaits  me — a  life  of  never-ending  triumph! 
The  doors  of  Valhalla  stand  wide  open — I  heard  the  trumpet- 
call  last  night — I  saw  the  dark-haired  Valkyrie!  All  is  well 
— and  my  soul  is  full  of  rejoicing.  Valdemar — there  is  but 
one  thing  now  thou  hast  to  do  for  me — the  one  great  service 
thou  hast  sworn  to  render.     Fulfill  thine  oath!" 

Valdemar's  brown  cheek  blanched — his  lips  quivered — he 
flung  up  his  hands  in  wild  appeal.  The  picturesque  flow  of 
his  native  speech  gained  new  fervor  and  eloquence  as  he 
spoke. 

"Not  yet — not  yet,  my  lord!"  he  cried,  passionately.  "Wait 
but  a  little — there  is  time.  Think  for  one  moment — think! 
Would  it  not  be  well  for  my  lord  to  sleep  the  last  sleep  by  the 
side  of  his  beloved  Thelma — the  star  of  the  dark  mountains — 
the  moonbeam  of  the  night  of  his  life?  Would  not  peace  in- 
wrap  him  there  as  with  a  soft  garment,  and  would  not  his  rest 
be  lulled  by  the  placid  murmur  of  the  sea?  For  the  days  of 
old  time  and  storm  and  victory  are  past — and  the  dead  slum- 
ber as  stones  in  the  silent  pathways — why  would  my  lord  de- 
part in  haste,  as  though  he  were  wrathful,  from  the  land  he 
has  loved? — from  the  vassal  who  implores  his  pardon  for 
pleading  against  a  deed  he  dares  not  do!" 

"Dares  not — dares  not!"  cried  the  bonde,  springing  up  half 
erect  from  his  couch,  in  spite  of  pain,  and  looking  like  some 
enraged  old  lion  with  his  tossed,  streaming  hair  and  glittering 
eyes.  "Serf  as  thou  art,  and  coward!  Thinkest  thou  an  oath 
such  as  thine  is  but  a  thread  of  hair,  to  be  snapped  at  thy 
pleasure?  Wilt  thou  brave  the  wrath  of  the  gods  and  the 
teeth  of  the  Wolf  of  Nastrond?  As  surely  as  the  seven  stars 
shine  on  the  white  brow  of  Thor,  evil  shall  be  upon  thee  if  thou 
refusest  to  perform  the  vow  thou  hast  sworn!  And  shall  a 
slave  have  strength  to  resist  the  dying  curse  of  a  king?" 

The  pride,  the  supreme  authority — the  magnificent  strength 


THELMA.  483 

of  command  that  flushed  the  old  man's  features,  were  extra- 
ordinary and  ahnost  terrible  in  their  impressive  grandeur.  If 
he  indeed  believed  himself  by  blood  a  king  and  a  descendant 
of  kings,  he  could  not  have  shown  a  more  forcible  display  of 
personal  sovereignty.  The  effect  of  his  manner  on  Valdemar 
was  instantaneous — the  superstitious  fears  of  that  bronzed  sea- 
wanderer  were  easily  aroused.  His  head  drooped — he 
stretched  out  his  hands  imploringly. 

"Let  not  my  lord  curse  his  servant,"  he  faltered.  "It  was 
but  a  tremor  of  the  heart  that  caused  my  tongue  to  speak  fool- 
ishly. I  am  ready — I  have  sworn — the  oath  shall  be  kept  to 
its  utmost  end!" 

Olaf  Guldmar's  threatening  countenance  relaxed,  and  he 
fell  back  on  his  pillows. 

"It  is  well!"  he  said,  feebly,  and  somewhat  indistinctly. 
"Thy  want  of  will  maddened  me — I  spoke  and  lived  in  times 
that  are  no  more — days  of  battle — and — glory — that  are  gone 
— from  men — forever.  More  wine,  Valdemar! — I  must  keep 
a  grip  on  this  slippery  life — and  yet — I  wander — wander  into 
the— night— " 

His  voice  ceased,  and  he  sank  into  a  swoon — a  swoon  that 
was  like  death.  His  breathing  was  scarcely  perceptible,  and 
Svensen,  alarmed  at  his  appearance,  forced  some  drops  of  wine 
between  his  set  lips,  and  chafed  his  cold  hands  with  anxious 
solicitude.  Slowly  and  very  gradually  he  recovered  conscious- 
ness and  intelligence,  and  presently  asked  for  a  pencil  and 
paper  to  write  a  few  farewell  words  to  his  daughter.  In  the 
grief  and  bewilderment  of  the  time,  Valdemar  entirely  forgot 
to  tell  him  that  a  letter  from  Thelma  had  arrived  for  him  on 
the  previous  afternoon  while  he  was  away  at  Talvig — and  was 
even  now  on  the  shelf  above  the  chimney,  awaiting  perusal. 
Guldmar,  ignorant  of  this,  begun  to  write  slowly  and  with 
firmness,  disregarding  his  rapidly  sinking  strength.  Scarcely 
had  he  begun  the  letter,  however,  than  he  looked  up  mean- 
ingly at  Svensen,  who  stood  waiting  beside  him. 

"The  time  grows  very  short,"  he  said,  imperatively.  "Pre- 
pare everything  quickly — go!  Fear  not — I  shall  live  to  see 
thee  return — and  to  bless  thee  for  thy  faithful  service." 

As  he  uttered  these  words  he  smiled;  and  with  one  wistful, 
yearning  look  at  him,  Valdemar  obediently  and  instantly  de- 
parted. ^  He  left  the  house,  carrying  with  him  a  huge  pile  of 
dry  brushwood,  and  with  the  air  of  a  man  strung  up  to  prompt 


484  THEiLMA. 

action,  rapidly  descended  the  sloping  path,  thick  with  hard- 
ened snow,  that  led  downward  to  the  fjord.  On  reaching  the 
shore,  he  looked  anxiously  about  him.  There  was  nothing  in 
sight  but  the  distant,  twinkling  lights  of  Bosekop — the  fjorJ 
itself  was  like  a  black  pool — so  still  that  even  the  faintest 
murmur  of  its  rippling  against  the  bonde's  own  private  pier 
could  be  heard — the  tide  was  full  up. 

Out  of  the  reach  of  the  encroaching  waters,  high  and  dry 
on  the  beach,  was  Guldmar's  brig,  the  "Valkyrie,"  trans- 
formed by  the  fingers  of  the  frost  into  a  white  ship,  fantasti- 
cally draped  with  threads  of  frozen  snow  and  pendent  icicles. 
She  was  placed  on  a  descending  plank,  to  which  she  was  at- 
tached by  a  chain  and  rope  pulley — so  that  at  any  time  of  the 
weather  or  tide  she  could  be  moved  glidingly  downward  into 
deep  water — and  this  was  what  Valdemar  occupied  himself  in 
doing.  It  was  a  hard  task.  The  chains  were  stiff  with  the 
frost — ^but,  after  some  patient  and  arduous  striving,  they 
yielded  to  his  efforts,  and,  with  slow  clank  and  much  creaking 
complaint,  the  vessel  slid  reluctantly  down  and  plunged  for- 
ward, afloat  at  last.  Holding  her  ropes,  Valdemar  sprang  to 
the  extreme  edge  of  the  pier  and  fastened  her  there,  and  then 
getting  on  board,  he  untied  and  began  to  hoist  the  sails. 
This  was  a  matter  of  the  greatest  difficulty,  but  it  was  gradu- 
ally and  successfully  accomplished;  and  a  strange  sight  the 
"Valkyrie"  then  presented,  resting  nearly  motionless  on  the 
black  fjord — her  stretched  and  frosted  canvas  looking  like 
sheeted  pearl  fringed  with  silver — her  masts  white  with  en- 
crusted snow,  and  topped  with  pointed  icicles.  Leaving  her 
for  a  moment,  Valdemar  quickly  returned,  carrying  the  pile  of 
dry  brushwood  he  had  brought — he  descended  with  this  into 
the  hold  of  the  ship,  and  returned  without  it.  Glancing  once 
more  nervously  about  him,  he  jumped  from  the  deck  to  the 
pier — thence  to  the  shore — and  as  he  did  so  a  long  dark  wave 
rolled  up  and  broke  at  his  feet.  The  capricious  wind  had 
suddenly  arisen — and  a  moaning  whisper  coming  from  the  ad- 
jacent hills  gave  warning  of  another  storm. 

Valdemar  hurriedly  retraced  his  steps  back  to  the  house — 
his  work  with  the  "Valkyrie"  had  occupied  him  more  than  an 
hour — the  bonde,  his  friend  and  master,  might  have  died  dur- 
ing his  absence!  There  was  a  cold  sickness  at  his  heart — his 
feet  seemed  heavy  as  lead,  and  scarcely  able  to  carry  him  along 
quickly  enough — to  his  credulous  and  visionary  mind,  the 


THELMA.  485 

hovering  shadow  of  death  seemed  everywhere — in  every  crack- 
ling twig  lie  brushed  against — in  every  sough  of  the  wakening 
gale  that  rustled  among  the  bare  pines.  To  his  intense  relief 
he  found  Guldmar  lying  calmly  among  his  pillows — his  eyes 
well  open  and  clear,  and  an  expression  of  perfect  peace  upon 
his  features.    He  smiled  as  he  saw  his  servant  enter. 

"All  is  in  readiness?"  he  asked. 

Valdemar  bent  his  head  in  silent  assent. 

The  bonde's  face  lightened  with  extraordinary  rapture. 

"I  thank  thee,  old  friend!"  he  said  in  low  but  glad  accents. 
"Thou  knowest  I  could  not  be  at  peace  in  any  other  grave, 
I  have  suffered  in  thine  absence — the  sufferings  of  the  body 
that,  being  yet  strong  in  spite  of  age,  is  reluctant  to  take 
leave  of  life.  But  it  is  past!  I  am  as  one  numbed  with  ever- 
lasting frost — and  now  I  feel  no  pain.  And  my  mind  is  Hke  a 
bird  that  poises  for  a  while  over  past  and  present  ere  soaring 
into  the  far  future.  There  are  things  I  must  yet  say  to  thee, 
Valdemar — give  me  thy  close  hearing,  for  my  voice  is  weak." 

Svensen  drew  closer,  and  stood  in  the  humble  attitude  of 
one  who  waits  a  command  from  some  supreme  chief. 

"This  letter,"  went  on  the  old  man,  giving  him  a  folded 
paper,  "is  to  the  child  of  my  heart,  my  Thelma.  Send  it  to 
her — when — I  am  gone.  It  will  not  grieve  her,  I  hope — for, 
as  far  as  I  could  find  words,  I  have  expressed  therein  nothing 
but  joy — the  joy  of  a  prisoner  set  free.  Tell  her  that,  with  all 
the  strength  of  my  perishing  body  and  escaping  soul,  I  blessed 
her! — her  and  her  husband  in  whose  arms  she  rests  in  safety." 
He  raised  his  trembling  hands  solemnly.  "The  gods  of  my 
fathers  and  their  attendant  spirits  have  her  young  life  in  their 
glorious  keeping! — the  joy  of  love  and  purity  and  peace  be  on 
her  innocent  head  forever!" 

He  paused — the  wind  wailed  mournfully  round  the  house 
and  shook  the  lattice  with  a  sort  of  stealthy  clatter,  like  a 
forlorn  wanderer  striving  to  creep  in  to  warmth  and  shelter. 

"Here,  Valdemar,"  continued  the  bonde,  presently,  in  faint- 
er accents,  at  the  same  time  handing  him  another  paper. 
"Here  are  some  scrawled  lines — they  are  plainly  set  forth  and 
signed — which  make  thee  master  of  this  poor  place  atid  all 
that  it  contains." 

A  low,  choked  sob  broke  from  Valdemar's  broad  breast — he 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 


4ft6  THELMA. 

"Of  what  avail?''  he  murmured,  brokenly.  "When  my  lord 
departs,  I  am  alone  and  friendless!" 

The  bonde  regarded  him  with  kindly  pity. 

"Tears  from  thee,  stout  heart?"  he  inquired,  with  a  sort  of 
grave  wonder.  "Weep  for  life,  Valdemar — not  for  death! 
Alone  and  friendless?  Not  while  the  gods  are  in  heaven! 
Cheer  thee — thou  art  strong  and  in  vigorous  prime  of  man- 
hood— why  should  not  bright  days  come  for  thee — "  He 
broke  olf  with  a  gasp — a  sudden  access  of  pain  convulsed  him 
and  rendered  his  breathing  difficult.  By  sheer  force  of  will 
he  mastered  the  cruel  agony,  though  great  drops  of  sweat  stood 
on  his  brow  when  he  at  last  found  voice  to  continue. 

"I  thought  all  suffering  was  past,"  he  said  with  a  heroic 
smile.  "This  foolish  flesh  and  blood  of  mine  dies  hard!  But, 
as  I  was  saying  to  thee,  Valdemar — the  farm  is  thine,  and  all 
it  holds — save  some  few  trifles  I  have  set  down  to  be  given 
to  my  child.  There  is  little  worth  in  what  I  leave  thee — the 
soil  is  hard  and  ungrateful — the  harvest  uncertain,  and  the 
cattle  few.  Even  the  reindeer — didst  thou  say  they  were  in- 
jured by  their  fall  last  night? — I — I  forget — " 

"No  harm  has  come  to  them,"  said  Svensen  hastily,  seeing 
that  the  very  effort  of  thinking  was  becoming  too  much  for 
the  old  man.  "They  are  safe  and  unhurt.  Trouble  not  about 
these  things!" 

A  strange,  unearthly  radiance  transfigured  Guldmar's 
visage. 

"Trouble  is  departing  swiftly  from  me,"  he  murmured. 
"Trouble  and  I  shall  know  each  other  no  more!"  His  voice 
died  away  inarticulately,  and  he  was  silent  a  little  space. 
Suddenly,  and  with  a  rush  of  vigor  that  seemed  superhuman, 
he  raised  himself  nearly  erect  and  pointed  outward  with  a 
commanding  gesture. 

"Bear  me  hence!"  he  cried  in  ringing  tones.  "Hence  to 
the  mountains  and  the  sea!" 

With  a  sort  of  mechanical,  swift  obedience,  Valdemar  threw 
open  the  door — the  wind  rushed  coldly  into  the  house,  bring- 
ing with  it  large  feathery  flakes  of  snow.  A  hand-sledge 
stood  outside  the  porch — it  was  always  there  during  the  win- 
ter, being  much  used  for  visiting  the  outlying  grounds  of  the 
farm — and  to  this  Valdemar  prepared  to  carry  the  bonde  in  his 
herculean  arms.  But,  on  being  lifted  from  his  couch,  the  old 
man,  filled  with  strange,  almost  delirious  force,  declared  him- 


THELMA.  487 

self  able  to  stand — and,  though  suffering  deadly  anguish  at 
every  step,  did  in  truth  manage  to  reach  and  enter  the  sledge, 
strongly  supported  by  Valdemar.  There,  however,  he  fainted 
— and  his  faithful  servant,  covering  his  insensible  form  with 
furs,  thought  he  was  dead.  But  there  was  now  no  time  for 
hesitation — dead  or  living,  Olaf  Guldmar's  will  was  law  to  his 
vassal — an  oath  had  been  made  and  must  be  kept.  To  propel 
the  sledge  down  the  fjord  was  an  easy  matter — how  the  rest 
of  his  duty  was  accomplished  he  never  knew. 

He  was  conscious  of  staggering  blindly  onward,  weighted 
with  a  heavy,  helpless  burden — he  felt  the  slippery  pier  be- 
neath his  feet,  the  driving  snow  and  the  icy  wind  on  his  face 
— but  he  was  as  one  in  a  dream,  realizing  nothing  plainly,  till 
with  a  wild  start  he  seemed  to  awake — and  lo!  he  stood  on  the 
glassy  deck  of  the  "Valkyrie"  with  the  body  of  his  "King" 
stretched  senseless  before  him!  Had  he  brought  him  there? 
He  could  not  remember  what  he  had  done  during  the  past  few 
mad  minutes — the  earth  and  sky  whirled  dizzily  around  him — 
he  could  grasp  nothing  tangible  in  thought  or  memory.  But 
there,  most  certainly,  Olaf  Guldmar  lay — his  pallid  face  up- 
turned, his  hair  and  beard  as  white  as  the  snow  that  clung  to 
the  masts  of  his  vessel — his  hands  clinched  on  the  fur  garment 
that  inwrapped  him  as  with  a  robe  of  ro3^alty. 

Dropping  on  his  knees  beside  him,  Valdemar  felt  his  heart 
— it  still  throbbed  fitfully  and  feebly.  Watching  the  intense 
calm  of  the  grand,  rugged  face,  this  stern,  weather-worn 
sailor — this  man  of  superstitious  and  heathen  imaginations 
— gave  way  to  womanish  tears — tears  that  were  the  outcome 
of  sincere  and  passionate  grief.  His  love  was  of  an  excep- 
tional type — something  like  that  of  a  faithful  dog  that  refuses 
to  leave  the  grave  of  its  master;  he  could  contemplate  death 
for  himself  with  absolute  indifference — but  not  for  the  bonde, 
whose  sturdy  strength  and  splendid  physique  had  seemed  to 
defy  all  danger. 

As  he  knelt  and  wept  unrestrainedly,  a  soft  change,  a  deli- 
cate transparence,  swept  over  the  dark  bosom  of  the  sky. 
Pale  pink  streaks  glittered  on  the  dusky  horizon — darts  of 
light  began  to  climb  upward  into  the  clouds,  and  to  plunge 
downward  into  the  water — the  radiance  spread,  and  gradually 
formed  into  a  broad  band  of  deep  crimson,  which  burned  with 
a  fixed  and  intense  glow — topaz-like  rays  flickered  and 
streamed  about  it,  as  though  uncertain  what  fantastic  shape 


488  THELMA. 

they  should  take  to  best  display  their  brilHaiicy.  This  tremu- 
lous hesitation  of  varying  color  did  not  last  long;  the  whole 
jewel-like  mass  swept  together,  expanding  and  contracting 
with  extraordinary  swiftness  for  a  few  seconds — then,  sudden- 
ly and  clearly  defined  in  the  sky,  a  kingly  crown  blazed  forth — 
a  crown  of  perfect  shape,  its  five  points  distinctly  and  separ- 
ately outlined  and  flashing  as  with  a  million  rubies  and  dia- 
monds. The  red  luster  warmly  tinged  the  pale  features  oE 
the  dying  man,  and  startled  Valdemar,  who  sprung  to  his  feet 
and  gazed  at  that  mystic  aureola  with  a  cry  of  wonder.  At  the 
same  moment  Olaf  Guldmar  stirred,  and  began  to  speak 
drowsily  without  opening  his  eyes. 

"Dawn  on  the  sea!"  he  murmured.  "The  white  waves 
gleam  and  sparkle  beneath  the  prow,  and  the  ship  makes 
swift  way  through  the  waters!  It  is  dawn  in  my  heart — the 
dawn  of  love  for  thee  and  me,  my  Thelma — fear  not!  The 
rose  of  passion  is  a  hearty  flower  than  can  bloom  in  the  north 
as  well  as  in  the  south,  believe  me!    Thelma — Thelma!" 

He  suddenly  opened  his  eyes,  and  realizing  his  surround- 
ings, raised  himself  half  erect. 

"Set  sail!"  he  cried,  pointing  with  a  majestic  motion  of  his 
arm  to  the  diadem  glittering  in  the  sky.  "Why  do  we  linger? 
The  wind  favors  us,  and  the  tide  sweeps  forward — forward! 
See  how  the  lights  beckon  from  the  harbor!"  He  bent  his 
brows  and  looked  angrily  at  Svensen.  "Do  what  thou  hast 
to  do!"  and  his  tones  were  sharp  and  imperious.  "I  must 
press  on!" 

An  expression  of  terror,  pain,  and  pity  passed  over  the 
sailor's  countenance — for  one  instant  he  hesitated — the  next, 
he  descended  into  the  hold  of  the  vessel.  He  was  absent  for 
a  very  little  space — but  when  he  returned  his  eyes  were  wild 
as  though  he  had  been  engaged  in  some  dark  and  criminal 
deed.  Olaf  Guldmar  was  still  gazing  at  the  brilliancy  in  the 
heavens,  which  seemed  to  increase  in  size  and  luster  as  the 
wind  rose  higher.  Svensen  took  his  hand — it  was  icy  cold, 
and  damp  with  the  dews  of  death. 

"Let  me  go  with  thee!"  he  implored,  in  broken  accents.  "I 
fear  nothing!  Why  should  I  not  venture  also  on  the  last 
voyage  ?" 

Guldmar  made  a  faint  but  decided  sign  of  rejection. 

"The  Viking  sails  alone  to  the  grave  of  his  fathers!"  he 
said,  with  a  serene  and  proud  smile.    "Alone — alone!    Neither 


THELMA.  489 

wife,  nor  child,  nor  vassal  may  have  place  with  him  in  his 
ship — even  so  have  the  gods  willed  it.  Farewell,  Valdemar! 
l-ioosen  the  ropes  and  let  me  go! — thou  servest  me  ill — hasten 
— hasten — I  am  weary  of  waiting — " 

His  head  fell  back — that  mysterious  shadow  which  darkens 
the  face  of  the  dying  a  moment  before  dissolution  was  on  him 
now. 

Just  then  a  strange,  suffocating  odor  began  to  permeate  the 
air — little  wreaths  of  pale  smoke  made  their  slow  way  through 
the  boards  of  the  deck — and  a  fierce  gust  of  wind,  blowing 
seaward  from  the  mountains,  swayed  the  "Valkyrie"  uneasily 
to  and  fro.  Slowly,  and  with  evident  reluctance,  Svensen 
commenced  the  work  of  detaching  her  from  the  pier — feeling 
instinctively  all  the  while  that  his  master's  dying  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  him.  When  but  one  slender  rope  remained  to  be 
cast  off,  he  knelt  by  the  old  man's  side  and  whispered  trem- 
blingly that  all  was  done.  At  the  same  moment  a  small, 
stealthy  tongue  of  red  flame  curled  upward  through  the  deck 
from  the  hold,  and  Guldmar,  observing  this,  smiled. 

"I  see  thou  hast  redeemed  thine  oath,"  he  said,  gratefully 
pressing  Svensen's  hand.  "  'Tis  the  last  act  of  thine  allegi- 
ance— may  the  gods  reward  thy  faithfulness!  Peace  be  with 
thee! — we  shall  meet  hereafter.  Already  the  light  shines 
from  the  Eainbow  Bridge — there — there  are  the  golden  peaks 
of  the  hills  and  the  stretch  of  the  wide  sea!  Go,  Valdemar! — 
delay  no  longer,  for  my  soul  is  impatient — it  burns,  it  strug- 
gles to  be  free!    Go! — and — farewell!" 

Stricken  to  the  heart,  and  full  of  anguish — yet  serf-like  in 
his  submission  and  resignation  to  the  inevitable — Svensen 
kissed  his  master's  hand  for  the  last  time.  Then,  with  a  sort 
of  fierce  sobbing  groan,  wrung  from  the  very  depths  of  his 
despairing  grief,  he  turned  resolutely  away,  and  sprung  off 
the  vessel.  Standing  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  pier,  he  let 
slip  the  last  rope  that  bound  her — her  sails  filled  and  bulged 
outward — her  cordage  creaked,  she  shuddered  on  the  water — 
lurched  a  little — then  paused. 

In  that  brief  moment  a  loud  triumphant  cry  rang  through 
the  air.  Olaf  Guldmar  leaped  upright  on  the  deck  as  though 
lifted  by  some  invisible  hand,  and  confronted  his  terrified  ser- 
vant, who  gazed  at  him  in  fascinated  amazement  and  awe. 
His  white  hair  gleamed  like  spun  silver — his  face  was  trans- 
figured, and  wore  a  strange,  rapt  look  of  pale  yet  splendid 


490  THELMA. 

majesty — the  dark  furs  that  clung  about  him  trailed  in  regal 
folds  to  his  feet. 

"Hark!"  he  cried,  and  his  voice  vibrated  with  deep  and 
mellow  clearness.  "Hark  to  the  thunder  of  the  galloping 
hoofs! — see — see  the  glitter  of  the  shield  and  spear!  She 
comes — ah!  Thelma!  Thelma!"  He  raised  his  arms  as 
though  in  ecstasy.    "Glory! — joy! — victory!" 

And,  like  a  noble  tree  struck  down  by  lightning,  he  fell — 
dead! 

Even  as  he  fell,  the  "Valkyrie"  plunged  forward,  driven 
forcibly  by  a  swooping  gust  of  wind,  and  scudded  out  of  the 
fjord  like  a  wild  bird  flying  before  a  tempest — and,  while 
she  thus  fled,  a  sheet  of  flame  burst  through  her  sides  and 
blazed  upward,  mingling  a  lurid,  smoky  glow  with  the  clear 
crimson  radiance  of  the  still  brilliant  and  crown-like  aurora. 
Following  the  current,  she  made  swift  way  across  the  dark 
water  in  the  direction  of  the  island  of  Seiland,  and  presently 
became  a  wondrous  ship  of  fire!  Fire  flashed  from  her  masts 
— fire  folded  up  her  spars  and  sails  in  a  devouring  embrace — 
fire  that  leaped  and  played  and  sent  forth  a  million  showering 
sparks  hissingly  into  the  waves  beneath. 

With  beating  heart  and  straining  eyes,  Valdemar  Svensen 
crouched  on  the  pier-head,  watching,  in  mute  agony,  the 
burning  vessel.  He  had  fulfilled  his  oath! — that  strange  vow 
that  had  so  sternly  bound  him — a  vow  that  was  the  outcome 
of  his  peculiar  traditions  and  a  pagan  creed. 

Long  ago,  in  the  days  of  his  youth — full  of  enthusiasm  for 
the  worship  of  Odin  and  the  past  splendors  of  the  race  of  the 
great  l^orse  warriors — he  had  chosen  to  recognize  in  Olaf 
Guldmar  a  true  descendant  of  kings,  who  was  by  blood  and 
birth,  though  not  in  power,  himself  a  king — and  tracing  his 
legendary  history  back  to  old  and  half-forgotten  sources,  he 
had  proved,  satisfactorily,  to  his  own  mind,  that  he,  Svensen, 
must  lawfully,  and  according  to  old  feudal  system,  be  this 
king's  serf  or  vassal.  And,  growing  more  and  more  con- 
vinced of  this  in  his  dreamy  and  imaginative  mind — he  had 
sworn  a  sort  of  mystic  friendship  and  allegiance,  which  Guld- 
mar had  accepted,  imposing  on  him,  however,  only  one  abso- 
lute command.  This  was  that  he  should  be  given  the  "crim- 
son shroud"  and  sea-tomb  of  his  warlike  ancestors — for  the 
idea  that  his  body  might  be  touched  by  strange  hands,  shut 
in  a  close  coffin,  and  laid  in  the  earth  to  molder  away  to  wormy 


THELMA.  491 

corruption  had  been  the  one  fantastic  dread  of  the  sturdy  old 
pagan's  life.  And  he  had  taken  advantage  of  Svensen's  de- 
votion and  obedience  to  impress  on  him  the  paramount 
importance  of  his  solitary  behest. 

"Let  no  hypocritical  prayers  be  chanted  over  my  dumb 
corpse,"  he  had  said.  "My  blood  would  ooze  from  me  at  every 
pore  were  I  touched  by  the  fingers  of  a  Lutheran!  Save  this 
goodly  body  that  has  served  me  so  well  from  the  inferior  dust 
— let  the  bright  fire  wither  it,  and  the  glad  sea  drown  it — and 
my  soul,  beholding  its  end  afar  off,  shall  rejoice  and  be  satis- 
fied. Swear  by  the  wrath  and  thunder  of  the  gods! — swear 
by  the  unflinching  Hammer  of  Thor — swear  by  the  gates 
of  Valhalla,  and  in  the  name  of  Odin! — and  having  sworn, 
the  curse  of  all  these  be  upon  thee  if  thou  fail  to  keep  thy 
vow!" 

And  Valdemar  had  sworn.  Now  that  the  oath  was  kept — 
now  that  his  promised  obedience  had  been  carried  out  to  the 
extremest  letter,  he  was  as  one  stupefied.  Shivering,  yet  re- 
gardless of  the  snow  that  began  to  fall  thickly,  he  kept  his 
post,  staring,  staring  in  drear  fascination  across  the  fjord, 
where  the  "Valkyrie"  drifted,  now  a  mass  of  fiame  blown 
fiercely  by  the  wind,  and  gleaming  red  through  the  flaky 
snow-storm. 

The  aurora  borealis  faded  by  gradual  degrees,  and  the 
blading  ship  was  more  than  ever  distinctly  visible.  She  was 
seen  from  the  shore  of  Bosekop  by  a  group  of  the  inhabitants, 
who,  rubbing  their  dull  eyes,  could  not  decide  whether  what 
they  beheld  was  fire,  or  a  new  phase  of  the  capricious,  ever- 
changing  Northern  Light — the  rapidly  descending  snow  ren- 
dering their  vision  bewildered  and  uncertain.  Any  way,  they 
thought  very  little  about  it — they  had  had  excitement  of  an- 
other kind  in  the  arrival  of  Ulrika  from  Talvig,  bringing 
accounts  of  the  godly  Lovisa  Elsland's  death. 

Moreover,  an  English  steam  cargo-boat,  bound  for  the 
North  Cape,  had,  just  an  hour  previously,  touched  at  their 
harbor,  to  land  a  passenger — a  mysterious  woman  closely 
veiled,  who  immediately  on  arrival  had  hired  a  sledge,  and  had 
bidden  the  driver  to  take  her  to  the  house  of  Olaf  Guldmar, 
an  eight  miles'  journey  through  the  drifted  snow.  All  this 
was  intensely  interesting  to  the  good,  stupid,  gossiping  fisher- 
folk  of  Bosekop — so  much  so,  indeed,  that  they  scarcely  paid 
any  heed  to  the  spectacle  of  the  fiery  ship  swaying  suggestively 


4d2  THELMA. 

on  the  heaving  water  and  drifting  rapidly  away — away  toward 
the  frosted  peaks  of  Seiland. 

Further  and  further  she  receded — the  flames  around  her 
waving  like  banners  in  a  battle — further  and  further  still— till 
Valdemar  Svensen,  from  his  station  on  the  pier,  began  to  lose 
sight  of  her  blazing  timbers — and,  starting  from  his  reverie, 
he  ran  rapidly  from  the  shore,  up  through  the  garden  paths 
to  the  farm-house,  in  order  to  gain  the  summit,  and  from 
that  point  of  vantage  watch  the  last  glimmering  spark  of 
the  Viking's  burial.  As  he  reached  the  house,  he  stopped 
short  and  uttered  a  wild  exclamation.  There — under  the 
porch  hung  with  sparkling  icicles— stood  Thelma!— Thelma 
--her  face  pale  and  weary,  yet  smiling  faintly — Thelma 
with  the  glint  of  her  wondrous  gold  hair  escaping  from 
under  her  hat  and  glittering  on  the  folds  of  her  dark 
mantle. 

"I  have  come  home,  Valdemar!"  said  the  sweet,  rich,  pene- 
trating voice.    "Where  is  my  father?" 

As  a  man  distraught,  or  in  some  dreadful  dream,  Valdemar 
approached  her — the  strangeness  of  his  look  and  manner  filled 
her  with  sudden  fear — he  caught  her  hand  and  pointed  to  the 
dark  fjord — to  the  spot  where  gleamed  a  lurid,  waving  wreath 
of  flames. 

"Froken  Thelma — he  is  there!"  he  gasped  in  choked,  hoarse 
tones.    "There — where  the  gods  have  called  him!" 

With  a  faint  shriek  of  terror,  Thelma's  blue  eyes  turned 
toward  the  shadowy  water — as  she  looked,  a  long  up-twisting 
snake  of  fire  appeared  to  leap  from  the  perishing  "Valkyrie" 
— a  snake  that  twined  its  glittering  coils  rapidly  round  and 
round  on  the  wind,  and  as  rapidly  sunk — down — down — to  one 
glimmering  spark  which  glowed  redly  like  a  floating  lamp  for 
a  brief  space  and  was  then  quenched  forever!  The  ship  had 
vanished!  Thelma  needed  no  explanation;  she  knew  her 
father's  creed — she  understood  all.  Breaking  loose  from  Val- 
demar's  grasp,  she  rushed  a  few  steps  forward  with  arms 
outstretched  in  the  bitter,  snowy  air. 

"Father!  father!"  she  cried  aloud  and  sobbingly,  "wait  for 
me! — it  is  I — Thelma! — I  am  coming — Father!" 

The  white  world  around  her  grew  black — and  shuddering 
like  a  shot  bird,  she  fell  senseless. 

Instantly  Valdemar  raised  her  from  the  ground,  and  hold- 
ing her  tenderly  and  reverently  in  his  strong  arms,  carried  her. 


THELMA.  493 

as  though  she  were  a  child,  into  the  house.  The  clouds  dark- 
ened— the  snow-storm  thickened — the  mountain-peaks,  stern 
giants,  frowned  through  their  sleety  veils  at  the  arctic  desola- 
tion of  the  land  below  them — and  over  the  chan-ed  and  sunken 
corpse  of  the  departed  servant  of  Odin  sounded  the  solemn 
De  Profundis  of  the  sea. 


CHAPTEll  III. 

"The  body  is  the  storm: 
The  soul  the  star  beyond  it,  in  the  deep 
Of  Nature's  calm.     And,  yonder,  on  the  steep. 
The  Sun  of  Faith,  quiescent,  round,  and  warm!" 

Late  on  that  same  night,  the  pious  Ulrika  was  engaged  in 
prayer.  Prayer  with  her  was  a  sort  of  fanatical  wrestling  of 
the  body  as  well  as  of  tlie  soul.  She  was  never  contented 
unless  by  means  of  groans  and  contortions  she  could  manage 
to  work  up  by  degrees  into  a  condition  of  hysteria  resembling 
a  mild  epileptic  attack,  in  which  state  alone  she  considered 
herself  worthy  to  approach  the  Deity.  On  this  occasion  she 
had  some  difficulty  to  attain  the  desired  result — her  soul,  as 
she  herself  expressed  it,  was  "dry" — and  her  thoughts  wan- 
dered, though  she  pinched  her  neck  and  arms  with  the  hard 
resoluteness  of  a  sworn  flagellant,  and  groaned:  "Lord,  have 
mercy  on  a  me  a  sinner!"  with  indefatigable  earnestness.  She 
was  considerably  startled  in  the  midst  of  these  energetic  de- 
votions by  a  sudden  janghng  of  sledge-bells,  and  a  loud  knock- 
ing— a  knocking  which  threatened  to  break  down  the  door 
of  the  small  and  humble  house  she  inhabited.  Hastily  don- 
ning the  coarse  gown  and  bodice  she  had  recently  taken  off  in 
order  to  administer  chastisement  to  her  own  flesh  more  thor- 
oughly, she  unfastened  her  bolts  and  bars,  and,  lifting  the 
latch,  was  confronted  by  Valdemar  Svensen,  who,  nearly 
breathless  with  swift  driving  through  the  snow-storm,  cried 
out  in  quick  gasps: 

"Come  with  me — come!     She  is  dying!" 

"God  help  the  man!"  exclaimed  Ulrika  startled.  "Who  is 
dying?" 

"She — the  Froken  Thelma — Lady   Errington — she  is  all 


494  THELMA. 

alone  up  there,"  and  he  pointed  distractedly  in  the  direction 
from  whence  he  had  come.  "I  can  get  no  one  in  Bosekop — 
the  women  are  cowards  all — all  afraid  to  go  near  her,"  and  he 
wrung  his  hands  in  passionate  distress. 

Ulrika  pulled  a  thick  shawl  from  the  nail  where  it  hung  and 
wrapped  it  round  her. 

"I  am  ready,"  she  said,  and  without  more  delay,  stepped 
into  the  waiting  sledge,  while  Valdemar,  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  gratitude  and  relief,  took  his  place  heside  her.  "But 
how  is  it?"  she  asked,  as  the  reindeer  started  off  at  full  speed, 
*Tiow  is  it  that  the  bonde's  daughter  is  again  at  the  Alten 
Fjord?" 

"I  know  not!"  answered  Svensen,  despairingly.  "I  would 
have  given  my  life  not  to  have  told  her  of  her  father's  death." 

"Death!"  cried  Ulrika.  "Olaf  Guldmar  dead!  Impossible! 
Only  last  night  I  saw  him  in  the  pride  of  his  strength — and 
thought  I  never  had  beheld  so  goodly  a  man.  Lord,  Lord! 
That  he  should  be  dead!" 

In  a  few  words  Svensen  related  all  that  had  happened,  with 
the  exception  of  the  fire-burial  in  the  fjord. 

But  LTlrika  immediately  asked:  "Is  his  body  still  in  the 
house?" 

Svensen  looked  at  her  darkly.  "Hast  thou  never  heard, 
Ulrika,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "that  the  bodies  of  men  who  fol- 
low Olaf  Guldmar's  creed  disappear  as  soon  as  the  life  de- 
parts from  them?  It  is  a  mystery — strange  and  terrible!  But 
this  is  true — my  master's  sailing-ship  has  gone,  and  his  body 
with  it — and  I  know  not  where!" 

Ulrika  surveyed  him  steadily  with  a  slow,  incredulous  smile. 
After  a  pause,  she  said: 

"Fidelity  in  a  servant  is  good,  Valdemar  Svensen!  I  know 
you  well — I  also  know  that  a  pagan  shrinks  from  Christian 
burial!  Enough  said — I  will  ask  no  more — but  if  Olaf  Guld- 
mar's ship  has  gone,  and  he  with  it,  I  warn  you,  the  village 
will  wonder." 

"I  can  not  help  it,"  said  Svensen,  with  cold  brevity.  "I 
have  spoken  truth — he  has  gone!  I  saw  him  die — and  then 
vanish.    Believe  it  or  not  as  you  will,  I  care  not!" 

And  he  drove  on  in  silence.    Ulrika  was  silent  too. 

She  had  known  Valdemar  Svensen  for  many  years.  He 
was  a  man  universally  liked  and  respected  at  all  the  harbors 
and  different  fishing-stations  of  Norway,  and  his  life  was  an 


THELMA.  495 

open  book  to  everybody,  with  the  exception  of  one  page, 
which  was  turned  down  and  sealed — this  was  the  question  of 
his  reHgious  belief.  No  one  knew  what  form  of  faith  he  fol- 
lowed— it  was  only  when  he  went  to  live  with  the  bonde,  after 
Thelma's  marriage,  that  the  nature  of  his  creed  was  dimly 
suspected.  But  Ulrika  had  no  dislike  for  him  on  this  account 
— her  opinions  had  changed  very  much  during  the  past  few 
months.  As  devout  a  Lutheran  as  ever,  she  began  to  enter- 
tain a  little  more  of  the  true  spirit  of  Christianity — that  spirit 
of  gentle  and  patient  tolerance  which,  full  of  forbearance 
toward  all  humanity,  is  willing  to  admit  the  possibility  of  a 
little  good  in  everything,  even  in  the  blind  tenets  of  a  heathen 
creed.  Part  of  this  alteration  in  her  was  due  to  the  gratitude 
she  secretly  felt  toward  the  Guldmar  family  for  having  saved 
from  destruction — albeit  unconscious  of  his  parentage — Sig- 
urd, the  child  she  had  attempted  to  murder.  The  hideous 
malevolence  of  Lovisa  Elsland's  nature  had  shown  her  that 
there  may  be  bad  Lutherans — the  invariable  tenderness  dis- 
played by  the  Guldmars  for  her  unrecognized,  helpless,  and 
distraught  son  had  proved  to  her  that  there  may  be  good 
heathens.  Hearing  thus  suddenly  of  the  bonde's  death, 
she  was  strangely  affected — she  could  almost  have  wept. 
She  felt  perfectly  convinced  that  Svensen  had  made 
away  with  his  master's  body  by  some  mysterious  rite 
connected  with  pagan  belief — she  knew  that  Guldmar 
himself,  according  to  rumor,  had  buried  his  own  wife 
in  some  unknown  spot,  with  strange  and  weird  cere- 
monials— but  she  was  inclined  to  be  tolerant — and  glancing  at 
Svensen's  grave,  pained  face  from  time  to  time  as  she  sat  be- 
side him  in  the  sledge,  she  resolved  to  ask  him  no  more  ques- 
tions on  the  subject,  but  to  accept  and  support,  if  necessary, 
the  theory  he  had  so  emphatically  set  forth — namely,  the 
mystical  evanishment  of  the  corpse  by  some  supernatural 
agency. 

As  they  neared  their  destination,  she  began  to  think  of 
Thelma,  the  beautiful,  proud  girl  whom  she  remembered  best 
as  standing  on  a  little  green-tufted  hillock,  with  a  cluster  of 
pansies  in  her  hand,  and  Sigurd — Sigurd  clinging  fondly  to 
her  white  skirts,  with  a  wealth  of  passionate  devotion  in  his 
upturned,  melancholy,  blue  eyes.  Ulrika  had  seen  her  but 
once  since  then — and  that  was  on  the  occasion  when,  at  the 
threat  of  Lovisa  Elsland,  and  the  command  of  the  Kev.  Mr. 


496  THELMA. 

Dyceworthy,  she  had  given  her  Sir  Phihp  Errington's  card, 
with  the  false  message  written  on  it  that  had  decoyed  her  for 
a  time  into  the  wily  minister's  power.  She  felt  a  thrill  of 
shame  as  she  remembered  the  part  she  had  played  in  that 
cruel  trick — and  reverting  once  more  to  the  memory  of  Sigurd, 
whose  tragic  end  at  the  Fall  of  Njedegorze  she  had  learned 
through  Valdemar,  she  resolved  to  make  amends  now  that  she 
had  the  chance,  and  to  do  her  best  for  Thelma  in  her  suffer- 
ing and  trouble. 

"For  who  knows,"  mused  Ulrika,  "whether  it  is  not  the 
Lord's  hand  that  is  extended  toward  me — and  that  in  the 
ministering  to  the  wants  of  her  whom  I  wronged,  and  whom 
my  son  so  greatly  loved,  I  may  not  thereby  cancel  the  past  sin, 
and  work  out  my  own  redemption!" 

And  her  dull  eyes  brightened  with  hope,  and  her  heart 
warmed — she  began  to  feel  almost  humane  and  sympathetic — 
and  was  so  eager  to  commence  her  office  of  nurse  and  consoler 
to  Thelma  that  she  jumped  out  of  the  sledge  almost  before  it 
had  stopped  at  the  farm  gate.  Disregarding  Valdemar's  as- 
sistance, she  clambered  sturdily  over  the  drifted  heaps  of 
slippery  snow  that  blocked  the  deserted  pathways,  and  made 
for  the  house — Valdemar  following  her  as  soon  as  he  had 
safely  fastened  up  the  sledge,  which  was  not  his  own,  he  hav- 
ing in  emergency  borrowed  it  from  a  neighbor.  As  they 
approached,  a  sound  came  floating  to  meet  them — a  sound 
which  made  them  pause  and  look  at  each  other  in  surprise 
and  anxiety.  Some  one  was  singing — a  voice  full  and  clear, 
though  with  a  strange,  uncertain  quiver  in  it,  rippled  out  in 
wild  strains  of  minor  melody  on  the  snow-laden  air.  For  one 
moment  Ulrika  listened  doubtfully,  and  then  without  more 
delay  ran  hastily  forward  and  entered  the  house.  Thelma  was 
there — sitting  at  the  lattice  window  which  she  had  thrown 
wide  open  to  the  icy  blast — she  had  taken  off  her  cloak  and 
hat,  and  her  hair,  unbound,  fell  about  her  in  a  great,  glitter- 
ing tangle  of  gold — her  hands  were  busy  manipulating  an 
imaginary  spinning-wheel — her  eyes  were  brilliant  as  jewels, 
but  full  of  pain,  terror,  and  pathos.  She  smiled  a  piteous 
smile  as  she  became  hazily  conscious  that  there  were  others 
in  the  room — but  she  went  on  with  her  song — a  mournful, 
Norwegian  ditty — till  a  sudden  break  in  her  voice  caused  her 
to  put  her  hand  to  her  throat  and  look  up  perplexedly. 

"That  song  pleases  you?"  she  asked,  softly.     "lam  very 


THELMA.  497 

glad!  Has  Sigurd  come  home?  He  wanders  so  much,  poor 
boy!  Father,  dear,  you  must  tell  him  how  wrong  it  is  not  to 
love  Philip.  Every  one  loves  Philip — and  I — I  love  him  too, 
but  he  must  never  know  that."  She  paused  and  sighed. 
"That  is  my  secret — the  only  one  I  have!"  And  she  drooped 
her  fair  head  forlornly. 

Moved  by  intense  pity,  such  as  she  had  never  felt  in  all  her 
life  before,  Ulrika  went  up  and  tried  to  draw  her  gently  from 
the  window. 

"Poor  thing,  poor  thing!"  she  said,  kindly.  "Come  away 
with  me,  and  lie  down!  You  mustn't  sit  here — let  me  shut 
the  lattice — it's  quite  late  at  night,  and  too  cold  for  you,  my 
dear." 

"Too  cold?"  and  Thelma  eyed  her  wonderingly.  "Why,  it 
is  summer-time,  and  the  sun  never  sets!  The  roses  are  all 
about  the  walls — I  gave  one  to  Philip  yesterday — a  little  pale 
rose  with  a  crimson  heart.    He  wore  it,  and  seemed  glad!" 

She  passed  her  hand  across  her  forehead  with  a  troubled 
air,  and  watched  Ulrika,  who  quietly  closed  the  window 
against  the  darkness  and  desolation  of  the  night.  "Are  you  a 
friend?"  she  asked,  presently,  in  anxious  tones.  "I  know  so 
many  that  say  they  are  my  friends — but  I  am  afraid  of  them 
all — and  I  have  left  them.  Do  you  know  why?"  and  she  laid 
her  hand  on  Ulrika's  rough  arm.  "Because  they  tell  me  my 
Philip  does  not  love  me  any  more.  They  are  very  cruel  to 
say  so,  and  I  think  it  can  not  be  true.  I  want  to  tell  my  father 
what  they  say — because  he  will  know — and  if  it  is  true,  then 
I  wish  to  die — I  could  not  live!  Will  you  take  me  to  my 
father?" 

The  plaintive  pleading  gentleness  of  her  voice  and  look 
brought  more  tears  into  Ulrika's  eyes  than  had  ever  been 
forced  there  by  her  devotional  exercises — and  the  miserable 
Valdemar,  already  broken-hearted  by  his  master's  death, 
turned  away  and  sobbingly  cursed  his  gods  for  this  new  and 
undeserved  affliction.  As  the  Italian  peasantry  fall  to  abus- 
ing their  saints  in  time  of  trouble,  even  so  will  the  few  re- 
maining believers  in  Norse  legendary  lore  upbraid  their  fierce 
divinities  with  the  most  reckless  hardihood  when  things  go 
wrong.  There  were  times  when  Valdemar  Svensen  secretly 
quailed  at  the  mere  thought  of  the  wrath  of  Odin — there  were 
others  when  he  was  ready  to  pluck  the  great  god  by  the  beard 
and  beat  him  with  the  flat  of  his  own  drawn  sword.    This  was 

32 


498  THELMA. 

his  humor  at  the  present  moment,  as  he  averted  his  gaze  from 
the  pitiful  sight  of  his  "king's"  fair  daughter  all  desolate  and 
woe-begone — her  lovely  face  pale  with  anguish — her  sweet 
wits  wandering,  and  her  whole  demeanor  that  of  one  who  is 
lost  in  some  dark  forest,  and  is  weary  unto  death.  She 
studied  ITlrika's  rough  visage  attentively,  and  presently  noticed 
the  tear  on  her  cheeks. 

"You  are  crying!"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  grave  surprise, 
"Why?  It  is  foolish  to  cry  even  when  the  heart  aches.  I 
have  found  that — no  one  in  the  world  ever  pities  you!  But 
perhaps  you  do  not  know  the  world — ah!  it  is  very  hard  and 
cold;  all  the  people  hide  their  feelings,  and  pretend  to  be 
what  they  are  not.    It  is  difficult  to  live  so — and  I  am  tired!" 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  and  stood  up  unsteadily,  stretch- 
ing out  her  little,  cold  white  hands  to  Ulrika,  who  folded  them 
in  her  own  strong  coarse  palms.  "Yes — I  am  very  tired!"  she 
went  on,  dreamily.  "There  seems  to  be  nothing  that  is  true 
■ — all  is  false  and  unreal — I  can  not  understand!  But  you 
seem  kind" — here  her  swaying  figure  tottered,  and  Ulrika 
drew  her  more  closely  to  herself — "I  think  I  know  you — you 
came  with  me  in  the  train,  did  you  not?  Yes — and  the  little 
baby  smiled  and  slept  in  my  arms  nearly  all  the  way."  A  vio- 
lent shuddering  seized  her,  and  a  quiver  of  agony  passed  over 
her. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  murmured,  "I  feel  ill — very  ill — and 
cold — but  do  not  mind — I  think — I  am — dying!"  She  could 
scarcely  articulate  these  last  words — she  sunk  forward,  faint- 
ing, on  Ulrika's  breast,  and  that  devout  disciple  of  Luther, 
forgetting  all  her  former  dread  of  the  "white  witch  of  the 
Alten  Fjord,"  only  remembered  that  she  held  in  her  arms  a 
helpless  woman  with  all  the  sorrows  and  pangs  of  womanhood 
thick  upon  her — and  in  this  act  of  warm  heart-expansion  and 
timely  tenderness,  it  may  be  that  she  cleansed  her  soiled  soul 
in  the  sight  of  the  God  she  worshipped,  and  won  a  look  of 
pardon  from  the  ever-watchful  eyes  of  Christ. 

As  far  as  mundane  matters  were  concerned,  she  showed 
herself  a  woman  of  prompt  energy  and  decision.  Laying 
Thelma  gently  down  upon  the  very  couch  her  dead  father  had 
so  lately  occupied,  she  sent  the  distracted  Valdemar  out  to 
gather  fresh  pine-logs  for  the  fire,  and  then  busied  herself  in 
bringing  down  Thelma's  own  little  bed  from  the  upper  floor, 
airing  it  with  methodical  care,  and  making  it  as  warm  and 


THBLMA.  499 

cozy  as  a  bird's  nest.  While  she  was  engaged  in  these  prepa- 
rations, Thelma  regained  her  consciousness,  and  began  to  toss 
and  tumble  and  talk  deliriously;  but  with  it  all  she  retained 
her  innate  gentleness  and  patience,  and  submitted  to  be  un- 
dressed, though  she  began  to  sob  pleadingly  when  Ulrika 
would  have  removed  her  husband's  miniature  from  where  it 
lay  pressed  against  her  bosom — and  taking  it  in  her  own  hand 
she  kissed  and  held  it  fast.  One  by  one,  the  dainty  articles 
of  delicate  apparel  she  wore  were  loosened  and  laid  aside, 
Ulrika  wondering  at  the  embroidered  linen  and  costly  lace, 
the  like  of  which  was  never  seen  in  that  part  of  Norway — but 
wondering  still  more  at  the  dazzling  skin  she  thus  unveiled,  a 
skin  as  exquisitely  soft  and  pure  as  the  satiny  cup  of  a  Nile 
lily. 

Poor  Thelma  sat  resignedly  watching  her  own  attire  taken 
from  her,  and  allowed  herself  to  be  wrapped  in  a  comfortable 
loose  garment  of  white  wadmel,  as  warm  as  eiderdown,  which 
Ulrika  had  found  in  a  cupboard  upstairs,  and  which,  indeed, 
had  once  belonged  to  Thelma,  she  and  Britta  having  made  it 
together.  She  examined  its  texture  now  with  some  faint  in- 
terest— ^then  she  asked,  plaintively: 

"Are  you  going  to  bury  me?  You  must  put  me  to  sleep 
with  my  mother — her  name  w^as  Thelma  too.  I  think  it  is  an 
unlucky  name." 

"Why,  my  dear?"  asked  Ulrika,  kindly,  as  she  swept  the 
rich  tumbled  hair  from  the  girl's  eyes,  and  began  to  braid  it 
in  one  long  loose  plait,  in  order  to  give  her  greater  ease. 

Thelma  sighed.  "There  is  an  old  song  says — "  She  broke 
off.    "Shall  I  sing  it  to  you?"  she  asked,  with  a  wild  look. 

"No,  no,"  said  Ulrika.  "Not  now.  By  and  by!"  And  she 
nodded  her  head  encouragingly.  "By  and  by!  There'll  be 
plenty  of  time  for  singing  presently,"  and  she  laid  her  in  bed, 
tucking  her  up  warmly  as  though  she  were  a  very  little  child, 
and  feeling  strongly  inclined  to  kiss  her. 

"Ah,  but  I  should  like  to  tell  you,  even  if  I  must  not  sing — " 
and  Thelma  gazed  up  anxiously  from  her  pillow — "only  my 
head  is  so  heavy,  and  full  of  strange  noises — I  do  not  know 
whether  I  can  remember  it." 

"Don't  try  to  remember  it,"  and  Ulrika  stroked  the  soft 
cheek,  with  a  curious  yearning  sensation  of  love  tugging  at 
her  tough  heart-strings.  "Try  to  sleep — that  will  be  better 
for  you!"     And  she  took  from  the  fire  a  warm,  nourishing 


500  THELMA. 

drink  she  had  prepared,  and  gave  it  to  her.  She  was  surprised 
at  the  eagerness  with  which  the  poor  girl  seized  it. 

"Lord  help  ns,  I  believe  she  is  light-headed  for  want  of 
food!"  she  thought. 

Such  indeed  was  the  fact — Thelma  had  been  several  days 
on  her  Journey  from  Hull,  and  during  that  time  had  eaten 
so  little  that  her  strength  had  entirely  given  way.  The  provi- 
sions on  board  the  "Black  Polly,"  were  extremely  limited,  and 
consisted  of  nothing  but  dried  fish,  hard  bread,  and  weak  tea 
without  milk  or  sugar — and  in  her  condition  of  health,  her 
system  had  rebelled  against  this  daily  untempting  bill  of  fare. 
Ulrika's  simple  but  sustaining  beverage  seemed  more  than 
delicious  to  her  palate — she  drained  it  to  the  last  drop,  and, 
as  she  returned  the  cup,  a  faint  color  came  back  to  her  cheeks 
and  lips. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  feebly.  "You  are  very  good  to  me! 
And  now  I  do  quite  know  what  I  wished  to  say.  It  was  long 
ago — there  was  a  queen  named  Thelma,  and  some  one — a 
great  warrior,  loved  her  and  found  her  fair.  But  presently  he 
grew  tired  of  her  face,  and  raised  an  army  against  her,  and 
took  her  throne  by  force,  and  crowned  himself  king  of  all  her 
land.  And  the  song  says  that  Queen  Thelma  wandered  on 
the  mountains  all  alone  till  she  died — it  was  a  sad  song — but 
I  forget — the  end." 

And  her  voice  trailed  off  into  broken  murmurs,  her  eyes 
closed,  and  she  slept.  Ulrika  watched  her  musingly  and  ten- 
derly— wondering  what  secret  trouble  weighed  on  the  girl's 
mind.  AVhen  Valdemar  Svensen  presently  looked  in,  she 
made  him  a  warning  sign — and,  hushing  his  footsteps,  he  went 
away  again.  She  followed  him  out  into  the  kitchen,  when  he 
had  deposited  his  load  of  pine-wood,  and  began  to  talk  to  him 
in  low  tones.  He  listened — the  expression  of  grief  and  fear 
deepening  on  his  countenance  as  he  heard. 

"Will  she  die?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"Let  us  hope  not,"  returned  Ulrika.  "But  there  is  no  doubt 
she  is  very  ill,  and  will  be  worse.  What  has  brought  her  here, 
I  wonder?     Do  you  know?" 

Valdemar  shook  his  head. 

"Where  is  her  husband?"  went  on  Ulrika.  "He  ought  to  be 
here.  How  could  he  have  let  her  make  such  a  journey  at  such 
a  time!  Why  did  he  not  come  with  her?  There  must  be 
something  wrong!" 


THELMA.  501 

Svensen  looked,  as  he  felt,  completely  perplexed  and  de- 
spairing. He  could  think  of  no  reason  for  Thelma's  un- 
expected appearance  at  the  Alten  Fjord — he  had  forgotten  all 
about  the  letter  that  had  come  from  her  to  her  father — the 
letter  which  was  still  in  the  house,  unopened. 

"Well,  well!  It  is  very  strange!"  Ulrika  sighed,  resignedly. 
"But  it  is  the  Lord's  will — and  we  must  do  our  best  for  her, 
that's  all."  And  she  began  to  enumerate  a  list  of  things  she 
wanted  from  Bosekop  for  her  patient's  sustenance  and  com- 
fort. "You  must  fetch  all  these,"  she  said,  "as  soon  as  the 
day  is  fairly  advanced."  She  glanced  at  the  clock — it  was 
just  four  in  the  morning.  "And  at  the  same  time,  you  had 
better  call  at  the  doctor's  house." 

"He's  away,"  interrupted  Valdemar.  "Gone  to  Chris- 
tiania." 

"Very  well,"  said  Ulrika,  composedly.  "Then  we  must  do 
without  him.  Doctors  are  never  much  use,  any  way — maybe 
the  Lord  will  help  me  instead." 

And  she  returned  to  Thelma,  who  slept  still,  though  her 
face  was  now  feverishly  flushed  and  her  breathing  hurried  and 
irregular. 

The  hours  of  the  new  day — day,  though  seeming  night — 
passed  on,  and  it  was  verging  toward  ten  o'clock  when  she 
awoke,  raving  deliriously.  Her  father,  Sigurd,  Philip,  the 
events  of  her  life  in  London,  the  fatigues  of  her  journey  were 
all  jumbled  fantastically  together  in  her  brain — she  talked  and 
sung  incessantly,  and,  like  some  wild  bird  suddenly  caged, 
refused  to  be  quieted.  Ulrika  was  all  alone  with  her — Valde- 
mar having  gone  to  execute  his  commissions  in  Bosekop — and 
she  had  enough  to  do  to  make  her  remain  in  bed.  For  she 
became  suddenly  possessed  by  a  strong  desire  to  go  sailing 
on  the  fjord — and  occasionally  it  took  all  Ulrika's  strength 
to  hold  and  keep  her  from  springing  to  the  window,  whose 
white,  frosted  panes  seemed  to  have  some  fatal  attraction  for 
her  wandering  eyes. 

She  spoke  of  things  strange  and  new  to  her  attendant's  ears 
— frequently  she  pronounced  the  names  of  Violet  Vere  and 
Lady  Winsleigh  with  an  accent  of  horror — then  she  would 
talk  of  George  Lorimer  and  Pierre  Duprez — and  she  would 
call  for  Britta  often,  sometimes  endearingly — sometimes  im- 
patiently. The  picture  of  her  home  in  Warwickshire  seemed 
to  haunt  her — she  spoke  of  its  great  green  trees,  its  roses,  its 


502  THELMA. 

smooth,  sloping  lawns — then  she  would  begin  to  smile  and 
sing  again  in  such  a  weak,  pitiful  fashion  that  Ulrika — her 
stern  nature  utterly  melted  at  the  sight  of  such  innocent  help- 
less distraction  and  sorrow — could  do  nothing  but  fold  the 
suffering  creature  in  her  arms,  and  rock  her  to  and  fro  sooth- 
ingly on  her  breast,  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks  the 
while. 

And  after  long  hours  of  bewilderment  and  anguish,  Erring- 
ton's  child,  a  boy,  was  born — dead.  With  a  regretful  heart, 
Ulrika  laid  out  the  tiny  corpse — the  withered  blossom  of  a 
promised  new  delight,  a  miniature  form  so  fair  and  perfect 
that  it  seemed  sheer  cruelty  on  the  part  of  nature  to  deny  it 
breath  and  motion.  Thelma's  mind  still  wandered — she  was 
hardly  conscious  of  anything — and  Ulrika  was  almost  glad 
that  this  was  so.  Her  anxiety  was  very  great — she  could  not 
disguise  from  herself  that  Thelma's  life  was  in  danger — and 
both  she  and  Valdemar  wrote  to  Sir  Philip  Errington,  prepar- 
ing him  for  the  worst,  and  urging  him  to  come  at  once — little 
aware  that  the  very  night  the  lifeless  child  was  bom,  was  the 
same  on  which  he  had  started  from  Hull  for  Christiansund, 
after  his  enforced  waiting  for  the  required  steamer.  There 
was  nothing  more  to  be  done  now,  thought  Ulrika,  piously, 
but  to  trust  in  the  Lord  and  hope  for  the  best.  And  Valde- 
mar Svensen  made  with  his  own  hands  a  tiny  coffin  for  the 
body  of  the  little  dead  boy  who  was  to  have  brought  such 
pride  and  satisfaction  to  his  parents,  and  one  day  rowed  it 
across  the  fjord  to  that  secret  cave  where  Thelma's  mother 
lay  enshrined  in  stone.  There  he  left  it,  feeling  sure  he  had 
done  well. 

Ulrika  asked  him  no  questions — she  was  entirely  absorbed 
in  the  duties  that  devolved  upon  her,  and  with  an  ungrudging 
devotion  strange  to  see  in  her,  watched  and  tended  Thelma 
incessantly,  scarcely  allowing  herself  a  minute's  space  for  rest 
or  food.  The  idea  that  her  present  ministration  was  to  save 
her  soul  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  had  grown  upon  her,  and  was 
now  rooted  firmly  in  her  mind;  she  never  gave  way  to  fatigue 
or  inattention — every  moan,  every  restless  movement  of  the 
suffering  girl  obtained  her  instant  and  tender  solicitude,  and 
when  she  prayed  now,  it  was  not  for  herself  but  for  Thelma. 

"Spare  her,  good  Lord!"  she  would  implore  in  the  hyper- 
bolical language  she  had  drawn  from  her  study  of  the  Scrip- 
tures.    "As  the  lily  among  thorns,  so   is   she   among  the 


THELMA.  503 

daughters!  Cut  her  not  ofT  root  and  branch  from  the  land  ol 
the  living,  for  her  countenance  is  comely,  and  as  a  bunch  of 
myrrh  which  hath  a  powerful  sweetness,  even  so  must  she 
surely  be  to  the  heart  of  her  husband!  Stretch  forth  Thy 
right  hand,  0  Lord,  and  scatter  healing,  for  the  gates  of 
death  shall  not  prevail  against  Thy  power!" 

Day  after  day  she  poured  out  petitions  such  as  these,  and 
with  the  dogged  persistency  of  a  soldier  serving  Cromwell, 
believed  that  they  would  be  granted — though  day  after  day 
The] ma  seemed  to  grow  weaker  and  weaker.  She  was  still 
light-headed — her  face  grew  thin  and  shadowy — her  hands 
were  almost  transparent  in  their  whiteness  and  delicacy,  and 
her  voice  was  so  faint  as  to  be  nearly  inaudible.  Sometimes 
Ulrika  got  frightened  at  her  appearance,  and  heartily  wished 
for  medical  assistance,  but  this  was  not  to  be  had.  Therefore 
she  was  compelled  to  rely  on  the  efficacy  of  one  simple  remedy 
— a  herbal  drink  to  allay  fever — the  virtues  of  which  she  had 
been  taught  in  her  youth — this,  and  the  healing  mercies  of 
mother  Nature,  together  with  the  reserved  strength  of  her 
own  constitution,  were  the  threads  on  which  Thelma's  life 
hung. 

Time  passed  on,  and  yet  there  was  no  news  from  Sir  Philip, 
One  night,  sitting  beside  her  exhausted  patient,  Ulrika  fancied 
she  saw  a  change  in  the  wan  face — a  softer,  more  peaceful 
look  than  had  been  there  for  many  days.  Half  in  fear,  half  in 
hope,  she  watched.  Thelma  seemed  to  sleep — but  presently 
her  large  blue  eyes  opened  with  a  calm  yet  wondering  expres- 
sion in  their  clear  depths.  She  turned  slightly  on  her  pillows, 
and  smiled  faintly. 

"Have  I  been  ill?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  returned  Ulrika  softly,  overjoyed,  yet 
afraid  at  the  girl's  returning  intelligence.  "Very  ill.  But  you 
fell  better  now,  don't  you?" 

Thelma  sighed,  and  raising  her  little  wasted  hand,  exam- 
ined it  curiously.  Her  wedding  and  betrothal  rings  were  so 
loose  on  her  finger  that  they  would  have  fallen  off  had  they 
been  held  downward.  She  seemed  surprised  at  this,  but  made 
no  remark.  For  some  time  she  remained  quiet — steadfastly 
gazing  at  Ulrika,  and  evidently  trying  to  make  out  who  she 
was.    Presently  she  spoke  again. 

"I  remember  everything  now,"  she  said,  slowly.  "I  am  at 
home,  at  the  Alten  Fjord — and  I  know  how  I  came — and  also 


504  THELMA. 

why  I  came."  Her  lips  quivered.  "And  I  shall  see  my  father 
no  more,  for  he  has  gone — and  I  am  all — all  alone  in  the 
world!"  She  paused — then  added:  "Do  you  think  I  am 
dying?    If  so,  I  am  very  glad!" 

"Hush,  my  dear!"  said  Ulrika.  "You  mustn't  talk  in  that 
way.  Your  husband  is  coming  presently — "  she  broke  off 
suddenly,  startled  at  the  look  of  utter  despair  in  Thelma's 
eyes. 

"You  are  wrong,"  she  replied,  wearily.  "He  will  not  come 
— he  can  not.    He  does  not  want  me  any  more!" 

And  two  large  tears  rolled  slowly  down  her  pale  cheeks. 
Ulrika  wondered,  but  forbore  to  pursue  the  subject  further, 
fearing  to  excite  or  distress  her,  and  contented  herself  for  the 
present  with  attending  to  her  patient's  bodily  needs.  She 
went  to  the  fire  and  began  to  pour  out  some  nourishing  soup, 
which  she  always  had  there  in  readiness — and,  while  she  was 
thus  engaged,  Thelma's  brain  cleared  more  and  more — till 
with  touching  directness,  and  a  new  hope  flushing  her  face,  she 
asked  softly  and  beseechingly  for  her  child.  "I  forgot!"  she 
said,  simply  and  sweetly.  "Of  course  I  am  not  alone  any 
more.  Do  give  me  my  baby — I  am  much  better — nearly  well 
— and  I  should  like  to  kiss  it." 

Ulrika  stood  mute,  taken  aback  by  this  demand.  She  dared 
not  tell  her  the  truth — she  feared  its  effect  on  the  sensitive 
mind  that  had  so  lately  regained  its  balance.  But  while  she 
hesitated,  Thelma  instinctively  guessed  all  she  strove  to  hide. 

"It  is  dead!"  she  cried.    "Dead! — and  I  never  knew!" 

And,  burying  her  golden  head  in  her  pillows,  she  broke  into 
a  passion  of  convulsive  sobbing.  Ulrika  grew  positively  des- 
perate at  the  sound — what  was  she  to  do?  Everything  seemed 
to  go  against  her — she  was  inclined  to  cry  herself.  She  em- 
braced the  broken-hearted  girl,  and  tried  to  soothe  her,  but  in 
vain.  The  long  delirium  and  subsequent  weakness — com- 
bined with  the  secret  trouble  on  her  mind — had  deprived  poor 
Thelma  of  all  resisting  power,  and  she  wept  on  and  on  in 
Ulrika's  arms  till  nature  was  exhausted,  and  she  could  weep 
no  longer.  Then  she  lay  motionless,  with  closed  eyes,  utterly 
drained  in  body  and  spirit,  scarcely  breathing,  and,  save  for  a 
shivering  moan  that  now  and  then  escaped  her,  she  seemed 
almost  insensible.  Ulrika  watched  her  with  darkening,  medi- 
tative brows — she  listened  to  the  rush  of  the  storm-wind  with- 
out.   It  was  past  eleven  o'clock  at  night.    She  began  to  count 


THELMA.  505 

on  her  fingers — it  was  the  sixteenth  day  since  the  birth  of  the 
child — sixteen  days  exactly  since  she  had  written  to  Sir  Philip 
Errington,  informing  him  of  his  wife's  danger — and  the  dan- 
ger was  not  yet  past.  Thinking  over  all  that  had  happened, 
and  the  apparent  hopelessness  of  the  case,  she  suddenly  took 
a  strange  idea  into  her  head.  Ketiring  to  a  distant  corner, 
she  dropped  on  her  knees. 

"0  Lord  God  Almighty!"  she  said  in  a  fierce  whisper, 
"behold,  I  have  been  Thy  servant  until  now!  I  have  wrestled 
with  Thee  in  prayer  till  I  am  past  all  patience!  If  Thou  wilt 
not  hear  my  petition,  why  callest  Thou  Thyself  good?  Is  it 
good  to  crush  the  already  fallen  ?  Is  it  good  to  have  no  mercy 
on  the  sorrowful?  Wilt  Thou  condemn  the  innocent  without 
reason?  If  so,  Thou  art  not  the  Holy  One  I  imagined!  Send 
forth  Thy  power  now — now,  while  there  is  time!  Eescue  her 
that  is  lying  under  the  shadow  of  death — for  how  has  she 
offended  Thee  that  she  should  die?  Delay  no  longer,  or  how 
shall  I  put  my  trust  in  Thee?  Send  help  speedily  from  Thine 
everlasting  habitations — or,  behold!  I  do  forsake  Thee — and 
my  soul  shall  seek  elsewhere  for  Eternal  Justice!" 

As  she  finished  this  extraordinary,  half-threatening,  and  en- 
tirely blasphemous  petition,  the  boisterous  gale  roared  wildly 
round  the  house,  joining  in  chorus  with  the  stormy  dash  of 
waves  upon  the  coast;  a  chorus  that  seemed  to  Ulrika's  ears 
like  the  sound  of  fiendish  and  derisive  laughter. 

She  stood  listening — a  trifle  scared — yet  with  a  sort  of  fa- 
natical defiance  written  on  her  face,  and  she  waited  in  sullen 
patience,  evidently  expecting  an  immediate  answer  to  her  out- 
rageous prayer.  She  felt  somewhat  like  a  demagogue  of  the 
people,  who  boldly  menaces  an  all-powerful  sovereign,  even 
while  in  dread  of  instant  execution.  There  was  a  sharp  patter 
of  sleet  on  the  window — she  glanced  nervously  at  Thelma, 
who,  perfectly  still  on  her  couch,  looked  more  like  a  white, 
recumbent  statue  than  a  living  woman.  The  wind  shook  the 
doors,  and  whistled  shrilly  through  the  crevices — then,  as 
though  tired  of  its  own  wrath,  surged  away  in  hoarse  mur- 
murs over  the  tops  of  the  creaking  pines  toward  the  fjord,  and 
there  was  a  short,  impressive  silence. 

Ulrika  still  waited — almost  holding  her  breath  in  expecta- 
tion of  some  divine  manifestation.  The  brief  stillness  grew 
unbearable —  Hush!  What  was  that?  Jingle — jangle — jin- 
gle— jangle!    Bells!    Sledge-bells  tinkling  musically  and  mer- 


506  THELMA. 

rily — and  approaching  swiftly,  nearer — nearer!  Now  the 
sharp  trotting  of  hoofs  on  the  hard  snow — then  a  sudden 
slackening  of  speed — the  little  metallic  chimes  rang  slower 
and  yet  more  slowly,  till  with  a  decisive  and  melodious  clash 
they  stopped! 

Ulrika's  heart  heat  quickly — her  face  flushed — she  advanced 
to  Thelma's  bedside,  hoping,  fearing — she  knew  not  what. 
There  was  a  tread  of  firm,  yet  hurried,  footsteps  without — a 
murmur  of  subdued  voices — a  half-suppressed  exclamation  of 
surprise  and  relief  from  Valdemar — and  then  the  door  of  the 
room  was  hastily  thrown  open,  and  a  man's  tall  figure,  draped 
in  what  seemed  to  be  a  garment  of  frozen  snowflakes,  stood  on 
the  threshold.  The  noise  startled  Thelma — she  opened  her 
beautiful,  tired,  blue  eyes.  Ah!  what  a  divine  rapture — what 
a  dazzling  wonder  and  joy  flashed  into  them,  giving  them  back 
their  old  luster  of  sunlight  sparkling  on  azure  sea!  She  sprung 
up  in  her  bed  and  stretched  out  her  arms. 

"Philip!"  she  cried,  sobbingly.  "Philip!  oh,  my  darling! 
Try^— try  to  love  me  again! — Just  a  little! — before  I  die!" 

As  she  spoke  she  was  clasped  to  his  breast — ^folded  to  his 
heart  in  that  strong,  jealous,  passionate  embrace  with  which 
we  who  love  would  fain  shield  our  nearest  and  dearest  from 
even  the  shadow  of  evil — his  lips  closed  on  hers — and  in  the 
sacred  stillness  that  followed,  TJlrika  slipped  from  the  room, 
leaving  husband  and  wife  alone  together. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend; 

There  is  none  like  her,  none! 
And   never  yet   so  warmly  ran  my  blood 

And  sweetly  on  and  on. 
Calming  itself  to  the  long-wished-for  end, 

Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised  good. 

Tennyson. 

Britta  was  in  the  kitchen,  dragging  off  her  snow-wet  cloak 
and  fur  mufflers,  and  crying  heartily  all  the  while.  The  stal- 
wart Svensen  stood  looking  at  her  in  perplexity,  now  and  then 
uttering  a  word  of  vague  sympathy  and  consolation,  to  which 


THELMA.  507 

she  paid  not  the  slightest  heed.  The  poor  girl  was  tired  out, 
aud  half  numb  with  the  piercing  cold — the  excitement,  which 
had  kept  her  up  for  days  and  days,  had  yielded  to  the  nervous 
exhaustion  which  was  its  natural  result — and  she  kept  on 
weeping  without  exactly  knowing  why  she  wept.  Through- 
out the  long  and  fatiguing  Journey  she  had  maintained  un- 
flinching energy  and  perseverance — undaunted  by  storm,  sleet, 
and  darkness,  she  had  driven  steadily  over  long  miles  of  track- 
less snow — her  instinct  had  guided  her  by  the  shortest  and 
quickest  routes — she  seemed  to  know  every  station  and  vil- 
lage on  the  way — she  always  managed  to  obtain  relays  of 
reindeer  Just  when  they  were  needed — in  short,  Errington 
would  hardly  have  been  able  to  reach  the  Alten  Fjord  without 
her. 

He  had  never  realized  to  its  full  extent  her  strong,  indomit- 
able, devoted  character  till  he  saw  her  hour  after  hour  seated 
beside  him  in  the  pulkha,  her  hands  tightly  gripping  the 
reins  of  the  horned  animals,  whose  ways  she  understood  and 
perfectly  controlled — her  bright,  bird-like  eyes  fixed  with 
watchful  eagerness  on  the  bewildering  white  landscape  that 
opened  out  incessantly  before  her.  Her  common  sense  was 
never  at  fault — she  forgot  nothing — and  with  gentle  but  re- 
spectful firmness  she  would  insist  on  Sir  Philip's  taking  proper 
intervals  of  rest  and  refreshment  at  the  different  farms  they 
passed  on  their  road,  though  he,  eager  to  press  on,  chafed  and 
fretted  at  every  little  delay.  They  were  welcomed  all  along 
their  route  with  true  Norse  hospitality,  though  the  good  coun- 
try-folk who  entertained  them  could  not  refrain  from  aston- 
ishment at  the  idea  of  their  having  undertaken  such  a  Journey 
at  such  a  season,  and  appeared  to  doubt  the  possibility  of  their 
reaching  their  destination  at  all.  And  now  that  they  had 
reached  it  in  safety,  Britta's  strength  gave  way.  Valde- 
mar  Svensen  had  hastily  blurted  out  the  news  of  the  bonde's 
death,  even  while  she  and  Sir  Philip  were  alighting  from  their 
sledge — and  in  the  same  breath  had  told  them  of  Thelma's 
dangerous  illness.  What  wonder,  then,  that  Britta  sobbed 
hysterically,  and  refused  to  be  comforted — what  wonder  that 
she  turned  upon  Ulrika,  as  that  personage  approached,  in  a 
burst  of  unreasonable  anger. 

"Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!"  she  cried,  "to  think  that  the  Froken 
should  be  so  ill — almost  dying!  and  have  nobody  but  you  to 
attend  to  her!" 


508  THELMA. 

This,  with  a  vindictive  toss  of  the  hrown  curls.  TJh-ika 
winced  at  her  words — she  was  hurt,  but  she  answered  gently. 

"I  have  done  my  best,"  she  said  with  a  sort  of  grave  pathos. 
"I  have  been  with  her  night  and  day;  had  she  been  a  daugh- 
ter of  my  own  blood,  I  know  not  how  I  could  have  served  her 
with  more  tenderness.  And,  surely,  it  has  been  a  sore  and 
anxious  time  with  me  also — for  I,  too,  have  learned  to  love 
her!" 

Her  set  mouth  quivered — and  Britta,  seeing  her  emotion, 
Avas  ashamed  of  her  first  hasty  speech.  She  made  an  act  of 
contrition  at  once  by  putting  her  arms  round  Ulrika's  neck 
and  kissing  her — a  proceeding  which  so  much  astonished  that 
devout  servant  of  Luther  that  her  dull  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Forgive  me!"  said  the  impetuous  little  maiden.  "I  was 
very  rude  and  very  unkind!  But  if  you  love  the  Froken,  you 
will  understand  how  I  feel — how  I  wish  I  could  have  helped 
to  take  care  of  her.  And  oh!  the  bonde!" — here  she  gave  way 
to  a  fresh  burst  of  tears — "the  dear,  good,  kind,  brave  bonde! 
That  he  should  be  dead! — oh!  it  is  too  cruel — too  dreadful — I 
can  hardly  believe  it!" 

Ulrika  patted  her  consolingly  on  the  shoulder,  but  said 
nothing — and  Valdemar  sighed.  Britta  sought  for  her  hand- 
kerchief, and  dried  her  eyes — but,  after  a  minute,  began  to  cry 
again  as  reckless  as  ever. 

"And  now" — she  gasped — "if  the  Froken — dies — I  will  die 
too.  I  will — you  see  if  I  don't!  I  w-w-won't  live — without 
her!" 

And  such  a  big  sob  broke  from  her  heaving  bosom  that  it 
threatened  to  burst  her  trimly  laced  little  bodice, 

"She  will  not  die,"  said  Ulrika,  decisively.  "I  have  had  my 
fears — but  the  crisis  is  passed.  Do  not  fret,  Britta — there  is 
no  longer  any  danger.  Her  husband's  love  will  lift  the 
trouble  from  her  heart,  and  strength  will  return  more  speedily 
than  it  left  her." 

And  turning  a  little  aside  on  the  pretense  of  throwing  more 
wood  on  the  fire,  she  muttered,  inaudibly:  "0  Lord,  verily 
Thou  hast  done  well  to  grant  my  just  demand!  Even  for  this 
will  I  remain  Thy  servant  forever!"  After  this  parenthesis, 
she  resumed  the  conversation — Valdemar  Svensen  sitting 
silently  apart — and  related  all  that  had  happened  since 
Thelma's  arrival  at  the  Alten  Fjord.    She  also  gave  an  ac- 


THELMA.  509 

count  of  Lovisa  Elsland's  death — though  Britta  was  not  much 
atfected  by  the  loss  of  her  grandmother. 

"Dreadful  old  thing!"  she  said,  with  a  shudder.  "I'm  glad 
I  wasn't  with  her!  I  remember  how  she  cursed  the  Froken 
— perhaps  her  curse  has  brought  all  the  trouble — if  so,  it's  a 
good  thing  she's  dead,  for  now  everything  will  come  right 
again.  I  used  to  fancy  she  had  some  crime  to  confess — did 
she  say  anything  wicked  when  she  was  dying?" 

Ulrika  avoided  a  direct  reply  to  this  question.  What  was 
the  good  of  horrifying  the  girl  by  telling  her  that  her  de- 
ceased relative  was  to  all  intents  and  purjjoses  a  murderess? 
She  resolved  to  let  the  secret  of  old  Lovisa's  life  remain  buried 
with  her.    Therefore  she  simply  answered: 

"Her  mind  wandered  greatly — it  was  difficult  to  hear  her 
last  words.  But  it  should  satisfy  you,  Britta,  to  know  that 
she  passed  away  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord." 

Britta  gave  a  little  half-dubious,  half-scornful  smile.  She 
had  not  the  slightest  belief  in  the  sincerity  of  her  late  grand- 
mother's religious  principles. 

"I  don't  understand  people  who  are  so  much  afraid  of  the 
Lord,"  she  said.  "They  must  have  done  something  wrong. 
If  you  always  do  your  best,  and  try  to  be  good,  you  needn't 
fear  anything.    At  least,  that's  my  opinion." 

"There  is  the  everlasting  burning,"  began  Ulrika,  solemnly. 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  exclaimed  Britta,  quite  impatiently.  "I 
don't  believe  it!" 

Ulrika  started  back  in  wonder  and  dismay.  "You  don't 
believe  it!"  she  said  in  awed  accents.  "Are  you  also  a 
heathen  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  a  heathen,"  replied  Britta, 
almost  gayly.  "But  I  can't  believe  that  God,  who  is  so  good, 
is  going  to  everlastingly  burn  anybody.  He  couldn't,  you 
know!  It  would  hurt  Him  so  much  to  see  poor  creatures 
writhing  about  in  flames  forever — we  would  not  be  able  to 
bear  it,  and  I'm  quite  sure  it  would  make  Him  miserable  even 
in  heaven.  Because  He  is  all  Love — He  says  so — He  couldn't 
be  cruel!" 

This  frank  statement  of  Britta's  views  presented  such  a  new 
form  of  doctrine  to  Ulrika's  heavy  mind  that  she  was  almost 
appalled  by  it.  God  couldn't  burn  anybody  forever — He  was 
too  good!  What  a  daring  idea!  And  yet  so  consoling — so 
wonderful  in  the  infinite  prospect  of  hope  it  offered,  that  she 


510  THBLMA. 

smiled — even  while  she  trembled  to  contemplate  it.  Poor 
soul!  She  talked  of  heathens — being  herself  the  worst  type 
of  heathen — namely,  a  Christian  heathen.  This  sounds  incon- 
gruous, yet  it  may  be  taken  for  granted  that  those  who  profess 
to  follow  Christianity,  and  yet  make  of  God  a  being  malicious, 
revengeful,  and  of  more  evil  attributes  than  they  possess 
themselves,  are  as  barbarous,  as  unenlightened,  as  hopelessly 
sunken  in  slavish  ignorance  as  the  lowest  savage  who  adores 
his  idols  of  mud  and  stone.  Britta  was  quite  unconscious  of 
having  said  anything  out  of  the  common — she  was  addressing 
herself  to  Svensen. 

"Where  is  the  bonde  buried,  Valdemar?"  she  asked,  in  a  low 
tone. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  strange,  mysterious  smile. 

"Buried?  Do  you  suppose  his  body  could  mix  itself  with 
common  earth?    No — he  sailed  away,  Britta — away — ^yonder!" 

And  he  pointed  out  the  window  to  the  fjord,  now  invisible 
in  the  deep  darkness. 

Britta  stared  at  him  with  roundly  opened,  frightened  eyes — 
her  face  paled. 

"Sailed  away?  You  must  be  dreaming!  Sailed  away! 
How  could  he — if  he   was  dead?" 

Valdemar  grew  suddenly  excited.  "I  tell  you  he  sailed 
away!"  he  repeated  in  a  loud,  hoarse  whisper.  "Where  is  his 
ship,  the  'Valkyrie'?  Try  if  you  can  find  it  anywhere — on 
sea  or  land!  It  has  gone,  and  he  has  gone  with  it  like  a  king 
and  warrior  to  glory,  joy,  and  victory!  Glory — joy — victory! 
— those  were  his  last  words!" 

Britta  retreated,  and  caught  Ulrika  by  the  arm.  "Is  he 
mad?"  she  asked,  fearfully. 

Valdemar  heard  her,  and  rose  from  his  chair,  a  pained 
smile  on  his  face. 

'^'1  am  not  mad,  Britta,"  he  said,  gently.  "Do  not  be  afraid! 
If  grief  for  my  master  could  have  turned  my  brain,  I  had  been 
mad  ere  this — but  I  have  all  my  wits  about  me,  and  I  have 
told  you  the  truth."  He  paused — then  added,  in  a  more  ordi- 
nary tone,  "You  will  need  fresh  logs  of  pine.  I  will  go  and 
bring  them  in." 

And  he  went  out.  Britta  gazed  after  him  in  speechless 
wonder. 

"What  does  he  mean?"  she  asked. 

"What  he  says,"  returned  Ulrika,  composedly.    "You,  like 


THELMA.  511 

others,  must  have  known  that  Olaf  Guldmar's  creed  was  a 
strange  one — his  burial  has  been  strange — that  is  all!" 

And  she  skillfully  turned  the  conversation,  and  began  to 
talk  of  Thelma,  her  sorrows  and  sufferings.  Britta  was  most 
impatient  to  see  her  beloved  "Froken,"  and  quite  grudged  Sir 
Philip  the  long  time  he  remained  alone  with  his  wife. 

"He  might  call  me,  if  only  for  a  moment,"  Britta  thought 
plaintively.  "I  do  so  want  to  look  at  her  dear  face  again! 
But  men  are  all  alike — as  long  as  they've  got  what  they  want, 
they  never  think  of  anybody  else.  Dear  me!  I  wonder  how 
long  I  shall  have  to  wait!"  So  she  fumed  and  fretted,  and 
sat  by  the  kitchen-fire,  drinking  hot  tea  and  talking  to  Ulrika 
— all  the  while  straining  her  ears  for  the  least  sound  or  move- 
ment from  the  adjoining  room.  But  none  came — there  was 
the  most  perfect  silence.  At  last  she  could  endure  it  no 
longer,  and,  regardless  of  Ulrika's  remonstrances,  she  stole  on 
tip-toe  to  the  closed  door  that  barred  her  from  the  sight  of  her 
heart's  idol,  and  turning  the  handle  softly,  opened  it  and  looked 
in.  Sir  Philip  saw  her,  and  made  a  little  warning  sign, 
though  he  smiled. 

He  was  sitting  by  the  ])edside,  and  in  his  arms,  nestled 
against  his  shoulder,  Thelma  rested.  She  was  fast  asleep. 
The  lines  of  pain  had  disappeared  from  her  sweet  face — a 
smile  was  on  her  lips — her  breath  came  and  went  with  peace- 
ful regularity — and  the  delicate  hue  of  pale  rose  flushed  her 
cheeks.  Britta  stood  gazing  on  this  fair  sight  till  her  affec- 
tionate little  heart  overflowed,  and  the  ready  tears  dropped 
like  diamonds  from  her  curly  lashes. 

"Oh,  my  dear — my  dear!"  she  whispered  in  a  sort  of  rapture 
— when  there  was  a  gentle  movement — and  two  star-like  eyes 
opened  like  blue  flowers  outspreading  to  the  sun. 

"Is  that  you,  Britta?"  asked  a  tender,  wondering  voice — and 
with  a  smothered  cry  of  ecstasy,  Britta  sprung  to  seize  the 
outstretched  hand  of  her  beloved  Froken,  and  cover  it  with 
kisses.  And  while  Thelma,  laughed  with  pleasure  to  see  her, 
and  stroked  her  hair.  Sir  Philip  described  their  long  drive 
through  the  snow,  and  so  warmly  praised  Britta's  patience, 
endurance,  and  constant  cheerfulness,  that  his  voice  trembled 
with  its  own  earnestness,  while  Britta  grew  rosily  red  in  her 
deep  shyness  and  embarrassment,  vehemently  protesting  that 
she  had  done  nothing — nothing  at  all  to  deserve  so  much  com- 
mendation.    Then,  after    much   glad    converse,  Ulrika  was 


512  THELMA. 

called,  and  Sir  Philip,  seizing  her  hand,  shook  it  with  such 
force  and  fervor  that  she  was  quite  overcome. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you!"  he  said,  his  eyes  spark- 
ling with  gratitude.  "It's  impossible  to  repay  such  goodness 
as  yours!  My  wife  tells  me  how  tender  and  patient  and  de- 
voted you  have  been — that  even  when  she  knew  nothing  else, 
she  was  aware  of  your  kindness.  God  bless  you  for  it!  You 
have  saved  her  life — " 

"Ah,  yes,  indeed!"  interrupted  Thelma,  gently.  "And  life 
has  grown  so  glad  for  me  again!    I  do  owe  you  so  much." 

"You  owe  me  nothing,"  said  Ulrika  in  those  harsh,  monot- 
onous tones  which  she  had  of  late  learned  to  modulate.  "Noth- 
ing. The  debt  is  all  on  my  side."  She  stopped  abruptly — 
a  dull  red  color  flushed  her  face — her  eyes  dwelt  on  Thelma 
with  a  musing  tenderness. 

Sir  Philip  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on.  "The  debt  is  all  on  my  side.  Hear 
me  out.  Sir  Philip — and  you,  too — you  '^rose  of  the  northern 
forest,'  as  Sigurd  used  to  call  you!  You  have  not  forgotten 
Sigurd?" 

"Forgotten  him?"  said  Thelma,  softly.  "Never! — I  loved 
him  too  well!" 

Ulrika's  head  dropped.    "He  was  my  son!"  she  said. 

There  was  a  silence  of  complete  astonishment.  Ulrika 
paused — then,  as  no  one  uttered  a  word,  she  looked  up  boldly, 
and  spoke  with  a  sort  of  desperate  determination. 

"You  see  you  have  nothing  to  thank  me  for,"  she  went  on, 
addressing  herself  to  Sir  Philip,  while  Thelma,  leaning  back 
on  her  pillows,  and  holding  Britta's  hand,  regarded  her  with 
a  new  and  amazed  interest.  "Perhaps,  if  you  had  known 
what  sort  of  a  woman  I  am,  you  might  not  have  liked  me  to 
come  near — her."  And  she  motioned  toward  Thelma.  "When 
I  was  young — long  ago — I  loved — "  she  laughed  bitterly.  "It 
seems  a  strange  thing  to  say,  does  it  not?  Let  it  pass — the 
story  of  my  love,  my  sin  and  shame,  need  not  be  told  here! 
But  Sigurd  was  my  child — born  in  an  evil  hour — and  I — I 
strove  to  kill  him  at  his  birth." 

Thelma  uttered  a  faint  cry  of  horror.  Ulrika  turned  an 
imploring  gaze  upon  her. 

"Don't  hate  me!"  she  said,  her  voice  trembling.  "Don't, 
for  God's  sake,  hate  me!  You  don't  know  what  I  have  suf- 
fered!   I  was  mad,  I  think,  at  the  time — I  flung  the  child  in 


THELMA.  513 

the  fjord  to  drown — 3^oiir  father,  Olaf  Guldmar,  rescued  him. 
I  never  knew  that  till  long  after — for  years  the  crime  I  had 
committed  weighed  upon  my  soul — I  prayed  and  strove  with 
the  Lord  for  pardon,  but  always,  always  felt  that  for  me  there 
was  no  forgiveness.  Lovisa  Elsland  used  to  call  me  ^murder- 
ess'; she  was  right — I  was  one,  or  so  I  thought — till — till  that 
day  I  met  you,  Froken  Thelma,  on  the  hills  with  Sigurd,  and 
the  lad  fought  with  me."  She  shuddered,  and  her  eyes  looked 
wild.  "I  recognized  him — no  matter  how! — he  bore  my  mark 
upon  him — he  was  my  son — mine! — the  deformed,  crazy  crea- 
ture who  yet  had  wit  enough  to  love  you — you,  whom  then  I 
hated — but  now — " 

She  stopped  and  advanced  a  little  closer  to  Thelma's  bed- 
side. 

"Now,  there  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  you,  my  dear!" 
she  said  very  gently.  "But  you  will  not  need  me  any  more. 
You  understand  what  you  have  done  for  me — you  and  your 
father?  You  have  saved  me  by  saving  Sigurd — saved  me  from 
being  weighted  down  to  hell  with  the  crime  of  murder!  And 
you  made  the  boy  happy  while  he  lived.  All  th«  rest  of  my 
days  spent  in  your  service  could  not  pay  back  the  worth  of 
that  good  deed.  And  most  heartily  do  I  thank  the  Lord  that 
He  has  mercifully  permitted  me  to  tend  and  comfort  you  in 
the  hour  of  trouble — and,  moreover,  that  He  has  given  me 
strength  to  speak  and  confess  my  sin  and  unworthiness  before 
you  ere  I  depart.  For  now  the  trouble  is  past,  I  must  remove 
my  shadow  from  your  joy.  God  bless  you! — and — and  try  to 
think  as  kindly  as  you  can  of  me  for — for  Sigurd's  sake!" 

Stooping,  she  kissed  Thelma's  hand — and,  before  any  one 
had  time  to  speak  a  word,  she  left  the  room  abruptly. 

When,  in  a  few  minutes,  Britta  went  to  look  after  her,  she 
was  gone.  She  had  departed  to  her  own  house  in  Bosekop, 
where  she  obstinately  remained.  Nothing  would  induce  her 
to  present  herself  again  before  Sir  Philip  or  Thelma,  and  it 
was  not  till  many  days  after  they  had  left  the  Alten  Fjord  that 
she  was  once  more  seen  about  the  village.  And  then  she  was 
a  changed  being.  No  longer  harsh  or  forbidding  in  manner, 
she  became  humble  and  gentle — she  ministered  to  the  sick, 
and  consoled  the  afflicted — but  she  was  especially  famous  for 
her  love  of  children.  All  the  little  ones  of  the  place  knew 
her,  and  were  attracted  by  her — and  the  time  came  when 
Ulrika,  white-haired,  and  of  peaceful  countenance,  could  be 

33 


514  THELMA. 

seen  knitting  at  her  door  in  the  long  summer  afternoons  sur- 
rounded by  a  whole  army  of  laughing,  chattering,  dimpled 
youngsters,  who  would  play  at  hide-and-seek  behind  her  chair, 
and  clamber  up  to  kiss  her  wrinkled  cheeks,  putting  their 
chubby  arms  round  her  neck  with  that  guileless  confidence 
children  show  only  to  those  whom  they  feel  can  appreciate 
such  flattering  attentions.  Some  of  her  acquaintance  were 
wont  to  say  that  she  was  no  longer  the  "godly"  Ulrika — but 
however  this  might  be,  it  is  certain  she  had  drifted  a  little 
nearer  to  the  Author  of  all  godliness,  which,  after  all,  is  the 
most  we  dare  to  strive  for  in  all  our  different  creeds. 

It  was  not  long  before  Thelma  began  to  recover.  The  day 
after  her  husband  arrived  and  Ulrika  departed,  she  rose  from 
her  bed  with  Britta's  assistance,  and  sat  by  the  blazing  fire, 
wrapped  in  her  white  gown  and  looking  very  fragile,  though 
very  lovely.  Philip  had  been  talking  to  her  for  some  time,  and 
now  he  sat  at  her  feet,  holding  her  hand  in  his,  and  watching 
her  face,  on  which  there  was  an  expression  of  the  most  plain- 
tive and  serious  penitence. 

"I  have  been  very  wicked!"  she  said,  with  such  a  quaint 
horror  of  herself  that  her  husband  laughed.  "Now  I  look 
back  upon  it  all,  I  think  I  have  behaved  so  very  badly!  be- 
cause I  ought  never  to  have  doubted  you,  my  boy — no — not  for 
all  the  Lady  Winsleighs  in  the  world.  And  poor  Mr.  Neville! 
he  must  be  so  unhappy!  But  it  was  that  letter — that  letter  in 
your  own  writing,  Philip!" 

"Of  course,"  he  answered,  soothingly.  "No  wonder  you 
thought  me  a  dreadful  fellow.  But  you  won't  do  so  again, 
will  you,  Thelma?  You  will  believe  that  you  are  the  crown 
and  center  of  my  life — the  joy  of  all  the  world  to  me?" 

"Yes,  I  will,"  she  said,  softly  and  proudly.  "Though  it  is 
always  the  same,  I  never  do  think  myself  worthy.  But  I  must 
try  to  grow  conceited,  and  to  assure  myself  that  I  am  very 
valuable,  so  that  then  I  shall  understand  everything  better, 
and  be  wiser." 

Philip  laughed.  "Talking  of  letters,"  he  said  suddenly, 
"here's  one  I  wrote  to  you  from  Hull — it  only  got  here  to- 
day. Where  it  has  been  delayed  is  a  mystery.  You  needn't 
read  it — you  know  everything  in  it  already.  Then  there's  a 
letter  on  the  shelf  up  there  addressed  in  your  writing — it 
seems  never  to  have  been  opened." 

He  reached  it  down,  and  gave  it  to  her.  As  she  took  it,  her 
face  grew  very  sad. 


THELMA.  515 

"It  is  the  one  I  wrote  to  my  father  before  I  left  London," 
she  said.    And  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.    "It  came  too  late!" 

"Thelma,"  said  Sir  Philip  then,  very  gently  and  gravely, 
"would  you  like — can  you  bear — to  read  your  father's  last 
words  to  you?  He  wrote  to  you  on  his  death-bed,  and  gave 
the  letter  to  Valdemar — " 

"Oh,  let  me  see  it!"  she  murmured,  half-sobbingly. 
"Father — dear  father!  I  knew  he  would  not  leave  me  with- 
out a  word!" 

Sir  Philip  reverently  opened  the  folded  paper  which  Sven- 
sen  had  committed  to  his  care  that  morning,  and  together 
they  read  the  bonde's  farewell.    It  ran  as  follows: 


"Thelma,  My  Beloved, — The  summons  I  have  waited  for  has 
come  at  last,  and  the  doors  of  Valhalla  are  set  open  to  receive 
my  soul.  Wonder  not  that  I  depart  with  joy!  Old  as  I  am,  I 
long  for  youth — the  everlasting  youth  of  which  the  strength  and 
savor  fail  not.  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  know  the  same- 
ness of  this  world — though  there  is  much  therein  to  please  the 
heart  and  eye  of  a  man — but  with  that  roving  restlessness  that 
was  born  within  me,  I  desire  to  sail  new  seas  and  gaze  on  new 
lands,  where  a  perpetual  light  shines  that  knows  no  fading. 
Grieve  not  for  me — thou  wilt  remember  that,  unlike  a  Chris- 
tian, I  see  in  death  the  chiefest  glory  of  life— and  thou  must 
not  regret  that  I  am  eager  to  drain  this  cup  of  world-oblivion 
offered  by  the  gods.  I  leave  thee — not  sorrowfully — for  thou 
art  in  shelter  and  safety — the  strong  protection  of  thy  husband's 
love  defends  thee  and  the  safeguard  of  thine  own  innocence. 
My  blessing  upon  him  and  thee!  Serve  him,  Thelma  mine,  with 
full  devotion  and  obedience — even  as  I  have  taught  thee — thus 
drawing  from  thy  woman-life  its  best  measure  of  sweetness — 
keep  the  bright  shield  of  thy  truth  untarnished— and  live  so 
that  at  the  hour  of  thine  own  death-ecstasy  thou  mayst  depart 
as  easily  as  a  song-bird  soaring  to  the  sun!  I  pass  hence  in 
happiness— if  thou  dost  shed  a  tear  thou  wrongest  my  mem- 
ory— there  is  naught  to  weep  for.  Valdemar  will  give  me  the 
crimson  shroud  and  ocean  grave  of  my  ancestors — but  question 
him  not  concerning  this  fiery  pomp  of  my  last  voyage — he  is 
but  a  serf,  and  his  soul  is  shaken  to  its  very  depths  by  sorrow. 
Let  him  be — he  will  have  his  reward  hereafter.  And  now,  fare- 
well, child  of  my  heart — darling  of  mine  age — clear  mirror  in 
which  my  later  life  has  brightened  to  content!  All  partings  are 
brief — we  shall  meet  again— thou  and  I  and  Philip— and  all  who 
have  loved  or  who  love  each  other—the  journey  heavenward 
may  be  made  by  different  roads,  but  the  end— the  glory— the 
immortality  is  the  same!  Peace  be  upon  thee  and  on  thy  chil- 
dren and  on  thy  children's  children!  Thy  father, 

"Olaf  Guldmab.' 


516  THELMA. 

In  spite  of  the  brave  old  pagan's  declaration  that  tears  would 
wrong  his  memory,  they  dropped  bright  and  fast  from  his 
daughter's  eyes  as  she  kissed  again  and  again  the  words  his 
dying  hands  had  penciled — while  Errington  knew  not  which 
feeling  gained  the  greater  mastery  over  him — grief  for  a  good 
man's  loss,  or  admiration  for  the  strong,  heroic  spirit  in  which 
that  good  man  had  welcomed  Death  with  rejoicing.  He  could 
not  help  comparing  the  bonde's  departure  from  this  life  with 
that  of  Sir  Francis  Lennox,  the  man  of  false  fashion — who  had 
let  slip  his  withered  soul  with  an  oath  into  the  land  of  No- 
where. Presently  Thelma  grew  calmer,  and  began  to  speak 
in  hushed,  soft  tones: 

"Poor  Valdemar!"  she  said,  meditatively.  "His  heart  must 
ache  very  much,  Philip!" 

Philip  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"You  see,  my  father  speaks  of  the  'crimson  shroud,' "  she 
went  on.  "That  means  that  he  was  buried  like  many  of  the 
ancient  Norwegian  sea-kings — he  was  taken  from  his  bed 
while  dying  and  placed  on  board  his  own  ship  to  breathe  his 
last;  then  the  ship  was  set  on  fire  and  sent  out  to  sea.  I 
always  knew  he  wished  it  so.  Valdemar  must  have  done  it 
all — for  I — I  saw  the  last  glimpse  of  the  flames  on  the  fjord 
the  night  I  came  home!  Oh,  Philip!"  and  her  beautiful  eyes 
rested  tenderly  upon  him,  "it  was  all  so  dreadful — so  deso- 
late! I  wanted — I  prayed  to  die  also!  The  world  was  so 
empty — it  seemed  as  if  there  was  nothing  left!" 

Philip,  still  sitting  at  her  feet,  encircled  her  with  both  arms, 
and  drew  her  down  to  him. 

"My  Thelma!"  he  whispered,  "there  is  nothing  left — noth- 
ing at  all  worth  living  for — save  Love!" 

"Ah!  but  that,"  she  answered,  softly,  "is  everything!" 

4c  4c  4:  *  *  *  * 

Is  it  so,  indeed?  Is  Love  alone  worth  living  for — worth 
dying  for?  Is  it  the  only  satisfying  good  we  can  grasp  at 
among  the  shifting  shadows  of  our  brief  existence?  In  its 
various  phases  and  different  workings,  is  it,  after  all,  the 
brightest  radiance  known  in  the  struggling  darkness  of  our 
lives? 

Sigurd  had  thought  so — he  had  died  to  prove  it.  Philip 
thought  so — when  once  more  at  home  in  England  with  his  re- 
covered "treasure  of  the  golden  midnight"  he  saw  her,  like  a 
rose  refreshed  by  rain,  raise  her  bright   head  in   renewed 


THELMA.  517 

strength  and  beauty,  with  the  old  joyous  hister  dancing  in  her 
eyes,  and  the  smile  of  a  perfect  happiness  like  summer  sun- 
shine on  her  fair  face.  Lord  Winsleigh  thought  so — he  was 
spending  the  winter  in  Eome  with  his  wife  and  son — and  there 
among  the  shadows  of  the  Caesars,  his  long  social  martyrdom 
ended  and  he  regained  what  he  had  once  believed  lost  forever 
— his  wife's  affection.  Clara,  gentle,  wistful,  with  the  soften- 
ing shadow  of  a  great  sorrow  and  a  great  repentance  in  her 
once  too-brilliant  eyes,  was  a  very  different  Clara  to  the  dash- 
ing "beauty"  who  had  figured  so  conspicuously  in  London 
society.  She  clung  to  her  husband  with  an  almost  timid 
eagerness  as  though  she  dreaded  losing  him — and  when  he  was 
not  with  her,  she  seemed  to  rely  entirely  on  her  son,  whom 
she  watched  with  a  fond,  almost  melancholy  pride,  and  who 
responded  to  her  tenderness,  though  proffered  so  late,  with 
the  full-hearted  frankness  of  his  impulsive,  ardent  nature. 
She  wrote  to  Thelma,  asking  her  pardon,  and  in  return  re- 
ceived such  a  sweet,  forgiving,  generous  letter  as  caused 
her  to  weep  for  an  hour  or  more.  But  she  felt  she  could 
never  again  meet  the  clear  regard  of  those  beautiful,  earnest, 
truthful  eyes — never  again  could  she  stand  in  Thelma's  pres- 
ence, or  call  her  friend — that  was  all  over.  Still  Love  re- 
mained— a  Love,  chastened  and  sad,  with  drooping  wings  and 
a  somewhat  doubting  smile — yet  it  was  Love — 

"Love,  that  keeps  all  the  choir  of  lives  in  chime — 
Love,  that  is  blood  within  the  veins  of  time." 

And  Love,  no  matter  how  absurd  and  maltreated,  is  a  very 
patient  god,  and  even  while  suffering  from  undeserved  wounds, 
still  works  on,  doing  magical  things.  So  that  poor  Edward 
Neville,  the  forsaken  husband  of  Violet  Vere,  when  he  heard 
that  that  popular  actress  had  died  suddenly  in  America 
from  a  fit  of  delirium  tremens  brought  on  by  excessive  drink- 
ing, was  able,  by  some  gentle  method  known  only  to  Love  and 
himself,  to  forget  all  her  frailties — to  obliterate  from  his 
memory  the  fact  that  he  ever  saw  her  on  the  boards  of  the 
Brilliant  Theater — and  to  think  of  her  henceforth  only  as 
the  wife  he  had  once  adored,  and  who,  he  decided  in  vague, 
dreamy  fashion,  must  have  died  young.  Love  also  laid  a  firm 
hand  on  the  vivacious  Pierre  Duprez — he  who  had  long 
scoffed  at  the  jeu  d'amour,  played  it  at  last  in  grave  earnest — 


518  THELMA. 

and  one  bright  season  he  introduced  his  bride  into  Parisian 
society — a  charming  little  woman,  with  very  sparkling  eyes 
and  white  teeth,  who  spoke  French  perfectly,  though  not  with 
the  "haccent"  recommended  by  Briggs.  It  was  difficult  to 
recognize  Britta  in  the  jjetite  elegante  who  laughed  and 
danced  and  chatted  her  way  through  some  of  the  best  salons 
in  Paris,  captivating  everybody  as  she  went — but  there  she  was, 
all  the  same,  holding  her  own  as  usual.  Her  husband  was  ex- 
tremely proud  of  her — he  was  fond  of  pointing  her  out  to  peo- 
ple as  something  excessively  precious  and  unique — and  saying: 
"See  her!  That  is  my  wife!  From  Norway!  Yes — from 
the  very  utmost  north  of  N.orway!  I  love  my  country — cer- 
tainly!— but  I  will  tell  you  this  much — if  I  had  been  obliged 
to  choose  a  wife  among  French  women — ma  foil  I  should 
never  have  married!" 

And  what  of  George  Lorimer? — the  idle,  somewhat  careless 
man  of  "modern"  type,  in  whose  heart,  notwithstanding  the 
supposed  deterioration  of  the  age,  all  the  best  and  bravest 
codes  of  old-world  chivalry  were  written?  Had  Love  no  fair 
thing  to  offer  him?  Was  he  destined  to  live  out  his  life  in  the 
silent  heroism  of  faithful,  unuttered,  unrequited,  unselfish  de- 
votion? Were  the  heavens,  as  Sigurd  had  said,  always  to  be 
empty?  Apparently  not — for  when  he  was  verging  toward 
middle  age,  a  young  lady  besieged  him  with  her  affections, 
and  boldly  offered  to  be  his  wife  any  day  he  chose  to  name. 
She  was  a  small  person,  not  quite  five  years  old,  with  great 
blue  eyes  and  a  glittering  tangle  of  golden  curls.  She  made 
her  proposal  one  summer  on  the  lawn  at  Errington  Manor,  in 
the  presence  of  Beau  Lovelace,  on  whose  knee  sat  the  little 
brother  Olaf,  a  fine  boy  a  year  younger  than  herself.  She  had 
placed  her  dimpled  arms  round  Lorimer's  neck — and  when  she 
so  confidingly  suggested  marriage  to  her  "Zordie,"  as  she 
called  him,  she  was  rubbing  her  rosy,  velvety  cheek  against 
his  mustache  with  much  sweet  consideration  and  tenderness. 
Lovelace,  hearing  her,  laughed  aloud,  whereat  the  little  lady 
was  extremely  offended. 

"I  don't  tare!"  she  said,  Avith  pretty  defiance.  "I  do  love 
00,  Zordie,  and  I  will  marry  oo!" 

George  held  her  fondly  to  his  breast,  as  though  she  were 
some  precious  fragile  flower  of  which  not  a  petal  must  be 
injured. 

"All  right!"  he  answered  gayly,  though  his  voice  trembled 


THELMA.  519 

somewhat,  "I  accept!     You  shall  be  my  little  wife,  Thelma. 
Consider  it  settled!" 

Apparently  she  did  so  consider  it,  for  from  that  day,  when- 
ever she  was  asked  her  name,  she  announced  herself  proudly 
as  "Zordie's  'ittle  wife,  Thelma" — to  the  great  amusement  of 
her  father.  Sir  Philip,  and  that  other  Thelma,  on  whom  the 
glory  of  motherhood  had  fallen  like  a  new  charm,  investing 
both  face  and  form  with  superior  beauty  and  an  almost  divine 
serenity.  But  "Zordie's  wife"  took  her  sobriquet  very  seriously 
— so  much  so,  indeed,  that  by  and  by  "Zordie"  began  to  take 
it  rather  seriously  himself — and  to  wonder  whether,  after  all, 
marriages,  unequal  in  point  of  age,  might  not  occasionally 
turn  out  well.  He  condemned  himself  severely  for  the  ro- 
manticism of  thinking  such  thoughts,  even  while  he  indulged 
in  them,  and  called  himself  "an  old  fool,"  though  he  was  in 
the  actual  prime  of  manhood,  and  an  exceedingly  handsome 
fellow  withal. 

But  when  the  younger  Thelma  came  back  at  the  age  of  six- 
teen from  her  convent  school  at  Aries — the  same  school  where 
her  mother  had  been  before  her — she  looked  so  like  her 
mother — so  very  like,  that  his  heart  began  to  ache  with  the 
old,  wistful,  passionate  longing  he  fancied  he  had  stilled  for- 
ever. He  struggled  against  this  feeling  for  a  while,  till  at 
last  it  became  too  strong  for  him — and  then,  though  he  told 
himself  it  was  absurd — that  a  man  past  forty  had  no  right  to 
expect  to  win  a  girl's  first  love,  he  grew  so  reckless  that  he 
determined  to  risk  his  fate  with  her.  One  day,  therefore,  he 
spoke  out,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  said,  and  only  conscious 
that  his  pulses  were  beating  with  abnormal  rapidity.  She 
listened  to  his  tremulous,  rather  hesitating  proposal  with 
exceeding  gravity,  and  appeared  more  surprised  than  dis- 
pleased. Eaising  her  glorious  blue  eyes — eyes  in  which  her 
mother's  noble,  fearless  look  was  faithfully  reflected,  she  said, 
simply,  just  in  her  mother's  own  quaint  way : 

"I  don't  know  why  you  talk  about  this  at  all.  I  thought  it 
was  all  settled  long  ago!" 

"Settled!"  faltered  Lorimer,  astonished — he  was  generally 
self-possessed,  but  this  fair  young  lady's  perfect  equanimity 
far  surpassed  his  at  that  moment— "settled!  My  dariing!  my 
child — I  am  so  much  older  than  you  are — " 

"I  don't  like  boys!"  she  declared,  with  stately  disdain.  "I 
was  your  wife  when  I  was  little — and  I  thought  it  was  to  be 


520  THELMA. 

the  same  thing  now  I  am  big!  I  told  mother  so,  and  she  was 
quite  pleased.    But,  of  course,  if  you  don't  want  me — " 

She  was  not  allowed  to  finish  her  sentence,  for  Lorimer, 
with  a  sudden  rush  of  joy  that  almost  overpowered  him, 
caught  her  in  his  arms  and  pressed  the  first  lover's  kiss  on  her 
pure,  innocently  smiling  lips. 

"Want  you!"  he  murmured,  passionately,  with  a  strange, 
sweet  mingling  of  the  past  and  present  in  his  words.  "I  have 
always  wanted — Thelma!" 


THE  END. 


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